


Jauchzet, frohlocket!

by tei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 13:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 33,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/pseuds/tei
Summary: Ficlets for MissDavis' 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge! Extremely non-descriptive title is the opening of Bach's Christmas Oratorio, pretty much the only Christmas-themed thing that I have any sentimental attachment to.Fics range from G to E, 500 to 3600 words. Favourite topics include sexual and non-sexual power exchanges, John and Sherlock having hobbies and interests outside of each other, and family relationships. Not a ton of holiday content, but some. Complete list of summaries, ratings and content notes in the author's notes!





	1. Angels

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Angels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39459961): John puts up decorations, and discovers something about Sherlock. G  
> 2\. [Knowledge of Astronomy: Profound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39490774): A practical demonstration of Sherlock's education. M  
> 3\. [The Threat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39540646): Someone threatens Sherlock. John doesn't like it. M  
> 4\. [How Absurdly Simple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39591289): The post-case ritual never changes. G  
> 5\. [Believe in You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39637485): John contemplates an old catchphrase. M  
> 6\. [Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39675315): John has some negative associations with fire. G  
> 7\. [Muscle Memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39712725): John joins a rec-league rugby team. Sherlock takes up ballet again, but Sherlock Holmes never could do anything casually. G  
> 8\. [Partita](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39748392): Greg kips on the couch. he gets some relationship advice and, against all odds, a good nights' sleep. G  
> 9\. [A Surprise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39790086): John buys Sherlock a new toy. CN: E-stim kink fic! M  
> 10\. [The Mission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39823794): John has a mission and an earpiece. Sherlock has a military kink and an aptitude for voice porn. E  
> 11\. [Boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39858207): John gets bored too. Some solutions are better than others. M  
> 12\. [Gingerbread](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39891147): John's baking brings up memories for Sherlock. CN: Eating disorders. T  
> 13\. [Easier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39921678): John is going grey, and they both know whose fault it is. T  
> 14\. [Courtesy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39957951): Sherlock reaches out to his brother, and John takes a stand on manners. G  
> 15\. [Pelham House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/39997635): Sherlock takes a solved case. He finds other ways to occupy himself. E  
> 16\. [Attention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40047273): Sherlock has an admirer, and that does things to John. T  
> 17\. [Snow Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40088219): John and Molly take some pictures of a dead body, and talk. G  
> 18\. [Hallelujah](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40123844): Sherlock gets roped into a performance of the Messiah. John reacts pretty to this pretty much the same as he reacts to everything else Sherlock Holmes does: lust. E  
> 19\. [The Cacophonous Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40156874): John is alone in the flat, and it's silent. G  
> 20\. [Sherlock's Bedroom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40191068): Sherlock and John visit the Holmes home for Christmas, and get up to some things in Sherlock's childhood bed. E  
> 21\. [Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40221497): When it comes to his brother, Mycroft fears the worst, but hopes for the best.  
> 22\. [Edible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40255436): John wants to eat Sherlock. Sherlock wants that too. CN: Cannibalism fantasy! M  
> 23\. [Ball](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40289840): Sherlock and John go to a fancy party. They find ways to make it interesting. M  
> 24\. [Scars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811212/chapters/40330706): Sherlock's scars make his body feel less his own; John helps him reclaim it. CN: Flogging, references to torture. M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Holiday decor

John is just barely able to clear enough space on the mantel for the angels. He’s rather proud of himself, in fact, for managing it without moving any of Sherlock’s crap, though he still feels a sliver of nervousness when he hears his flatmate’s footsteps behind him. 

“The angels--” John begins. 

“Were your mum’s,” Sherlock states. 

“They stay,” John says firmly, “You can have your mantel back as a birthday gift.”

Sherlock has retreated to the couch, and John backs up to join him, admiring the effect from across the room. The small figurines are tarnished, and they weren’t expensive to begin with, but Sherlock is correct: they had belonged to John’s mum, and she had never taken them down until Twelfth Night, so Sherlock is just going to have to deal with it.

“Pity about the rest,” John comments. “She always used to send cards. By the time the holidays rolled around, we’d have dozens of them back from friends and family. Still. Nothing to be done, I lost those addresses ages ago.”

John doesn’t expect Sherlock to comment on this, and he doesn’t. But he doesn’t complain, either, so John counts it a victory. 

The next morning, John rolls out of bed groggily to find the mantel miraculously cleared of everything but John’s angels, and Sherlock sitting on the floor surrounded by what looks like an explosion of correspondence. 

“What’s this?” John asks. 

“You said you wanted cards,” Sherlock answers. “So I’m putting out cards.”

John stares around the sitting room. There are envelopes and small boxes of papers strewn everywhere. Sherlock is making his way through piles of papers, putting specific pieces carefully in a pile to his left every so often and replacing most back into their envelopes and boxes. “People write to you,” John says, and though it should have been obvious, it feels like a revelation. 

“Obviously.”

There are already a few cards places out on the table, and John picks one up. It’s not a Christmas card, but it is brightly coloured and cheerily embossed with gold leaf. On the inside, in shaky writing, it says:

_Dear Sherlock, thank you so much for finding Alice. She’s still in the hospital, but getting stronger. I’m going to propose to her as soon as she’s well enough. We owe our lives together to you. God Bless. Yours, Mark.”_

The next one is on monogrammed cardstock, and the writing is the even loops of a public-school education:

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I and my associates at Amicus Grey Ltd extend our most heartfelt thanks for your assistance in the investigation concerning the incident at our former offices. We are truly grateful for the countless lives spared through your quick action and knowledgeable investigation._

_Sincerely,_

_Simon T. Grey_

The next is on pink construction paper, and says in a child’s nearly illegible printing:

_Dear Mr Homes, thank you for catching the man who killed mom. Im still sad but its better for him to bee in gaol. Love, Felicia._

A tight lump rises into John’s throat. He looks down at Sherlock, reading through another cart intently. There must be hundreds of them, all saved and indexed according to some arcane filing system that John can’t possibly hope to understand. 

“You saved all these,” he says quietly. 

“Of course I saved them, they’re from my clients,” says Sherlock, and his voice is businesslike, but there’s a softness underneath, the same softness that John suspects he used with Felicia. 

John picks up the cards that Sherlock has already set aside, crosses to the mantel and starts arranging them around the angels. 

“It looks perfect,” says John. “Thank you.”

“Sentiment,” mutters Sherlock, and John grins as he glances at the detective surrounded by the epistolary evidence of his good deeds. Sentiment, indeed.


	2. Knowledge of astronomy: profound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A power outage makes the night sky over London more visible. Sherlock would rather look elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "star."

Sherlock sighs heavily in the darkness. “How much longer is this _incredibly tedious_ power outage going to last?”

Standing by the window staring dramatically into the street is usually Sherlock’s gig, but tonight is an exception. John doesn’t bother turning around. “Don’t care. Check the Hydro site again, if it’s so important to you. I’ve never seen the London sky this clear, and neither have you. Come here.”

Sherlock doesn’t. “I already know what it looks like.”

“You don’t. You didn’t even know what a night sky looks like _in theory_ until that case with the painting, and you certainly don’t know what a night sky over London with no light pollution looks like.”

Sherlock rouses himself, irritated at the reminder. “My lack of knowledge of astronomy, _several years ago_ , was a regrettable error resulting from an inaccurate projection of the usefulness of that knowledge. I have since corrected it.”

John’s eye roll is practically audible. “Alright, then.” 

Sherlock huffs. “I’ll _show_ you,” he insists, and grabs a pen from the table. 

Sherlock is quick enough to rise and cross the room that John starts a little when Sherlock grabs him and spins him around, backing him up against the window. He shoves the sleeve of John’s jumper up to his elbow. John starts to protest, but the words die in his throat when Sherlock drops to his knees. 

“What’s this, then?” he says affectionately, placing a gentle hand in Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock allows himself to preen into the touch momentarily before he grabs John’s left arm, turning it around to expose the pale soft skin of the inside. He raises the pen, pulling John’s arm straight, and writes a large “W” on the outside corner of the inside of John’s left elbow. 

As John squints down at the letter, Sherlock grabs the right arm and prints a large “E”.

Underneath the E, on John’s forearm, he draws a series of dots: a triangular base, something resembling a square on top of that, two spiky protrusions on top and a “T” shape extending out to the right. Underneath, he labels the dots “Orion.”

John is wriggling the whole time, the sensitive skin jumpy at the pressure of the pen, and when Sherlock allows him to pull away he inspects the effect and chuckles a little. “Sherlock--”

But Sherlock has already grabbed the western arm and started drawing: a series of dots in the shape of a pointed diamond, labeled “Aquila.”

John manages to hold still this time, with an obvious effort. When Sherlock pulls away, John’s face is twisting in that way he does when he’s trying not to grin at something ridiculous Sherlock is doing, so Sherlock has no misgivings at all about continuing down: Delphinus below Aquila and a little more medial on the arm, Equuleus directly below, and Aquarius and Capricorn winding around his left wrist like a bracelet. 

Sherlock offers John his own arm for inspection. He leans forward slightly as he does it, and sure enough, there is a slight bulge in the front of John’s trousers. He glances up through his lashes to see that John is biting his lip and half-smiling as he reads the labels. 

“Half of these I haven’t even heard of,” John admits, and Sherlock takes advantage of his distraction to skim his fingers up and underneath John’s jumper and t-shirt, rising to his feet to pull it upwards. He hears John’s laugh and muttered “ _Sherlock!_ ” muffled underneath the fabric, but John raises his arms to allow it, the sky outside forgotten in favour of Sherlock’s own version. 

Sherlock takes in the blank canvas of John’s torso, and eventually drops slowly back down to his knees, leaving a trail of kisses from the centre of John’s clavicle to his navel. He raises the pen to place the dot of Mars first, and John gasps and flinches away reflexively as it comes into contact with the sensitive skin of his belly. 

“Sorry,” John gasps, and Sherlock can _definitely_ feel his cock rising now. “I’ll hold still.”

Sherlock can feel John’s thighs tense as he prepares himself for the sharp press of the pen, and he shivers before trying again, circling the nib just below John’s navel and a little to the right, drawing a single large dot and labeling it “Mars.” He smooths his hands over the red planet and then outwards, over John’s hips and down to squeeze his arse. John gasps and thrusts forward a little. 

“Better than stargazing?” murmurs Sherlock, and this time he nuzzles into John’s belly, desensitizing the area with the day’s subtle stubble on his face before adding Neptune and Uranus. 

“Yes,” says John, “yes, you are preferable to the entirety of the visible galaxy, Sherlock Holmes.” He’s teasing, but the words come out almost a moan near the end, so Sherlock decides to interpret it as sincere. 

Aries, Pegasus and Andromeda trail slowly up John’s belly, and Cassiopeia lands squarely on the bottom of his sternum. Sherlock pushes to his feet, needing to stoop to place Ursa Minor and Major diagonally across John’s breastbone. John is breathing heavily now, pushing himself forward into Sherlock’s body. 

“How do you always _do_ this to me?” John sounds halfway between irritated and aroused, which seems to Sherlock to be a very natural default state for the doctor, so he doesn’t bother answering the question. 

“Just a few more,” he promises instead. He lowers his lips to John’s right nipple and sucks hard. 

“ _Ungh!_ ” John’s back arches off the wall. “Sherlock-- god-- are you really going to--”

“Mhmm,” rumbles Sherlock, removing hs mouth from the peaked bud and rolling it with his fingers. He holds the delicate skin still while his places a dot with the pen exactly in the centre of John’s nipple, then quickly surrounds it with a square of other dots and prints the label “Hercules” underneath. 

John is panting. “That… _hurt_ ,” he says, but the weak protest is weakened even further when he groans and leans into the push of the pen on his left nipple, and reaches down to cup his own erection while Sherlock extends a zigzagging line away from it and labels it “Lynx.”

Sherlock slaps John’s hand away from his groin, then takes a step back to admire the effect. John’s torso is entirely covered in constellations. His face is flushed and he is sagging slightly against the wall, fingers twitching with the effort of not taking himself in hand. 

Sherlock crowds back into him. “Do you believe me now?”

“Nnghh… what?”

“The stars, John. Do I know them well enough? Or do you want to perhaps go for a romantic walk? Stand on the corner of Baker Street and stare rapturously up into the sky for a while?”

John reaches up and his hands find Sherlock’s face, pulling him down for a kiss. “God, _no_ ," he pants into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock smiles in response. “Then I suggest we take this study of the cosmos to a location that does not make us visible from the admittedly very dark street.”

John immediately pulls away, leading Sherlock by the hand towards the bedroom. “Teach me.”


	3. The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's blog gets a comment that John does not like one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "You better watch out."

John doesn’t usually read the comments. He doesn’t read the comments on is _own_ blog, let alone Sherlock’s, out of some perhaps misguided sense of still having a shred of dignity left. 

So it is a truly Herculean feat of boredom, resulting from Sherlock’s spending several hours at Scotland Yard inspecting the usage patterns of twenty-six different erasers found at various crime scenes around London, that has him pulling up _The Science of Deduction_ on his phone. 

Sherlock’s blog is probably the most boring thing about him. Granted, everything else about Sherlock is enduringly fascinating, so the even blog isn’t as bad as it could be. But at the conclusion of this case, when John will write up the murder mystery like a proper story, he has no doubt that Sherlock will be posting dozens of photos of each eraser from every possible angle to illustrate how he identified the killer by the shape of their fingers. Except he won’t actually do anything so prosaic as _explain_ how the erasers relate to his conclusions-- that’s supposed to be self-evident, according to the vast majority of his posts.

So John is curious. Curious about whether the lone commenter on his most recent post is actually deeply interested in tarnish patterns on the keys of woodwind instruments, or if it’s just another nut who wants to get into Sherlock’s pants.

As the page loads, John admits to himself that he maybe clicked in anticipation of the latter. Jealousy is something of a strong suit for John, and although it’s not a trait he’s particularly proud of usually… Sherlock does seem to enjoy it, in certain circumstances. 

John scrolls to the bottom of the page, already imagining how he’s going to use some random stranger’s lust for his husband to his advantage. Sherlock adores when John crowds him up against a wall, when John uses the Captain voice and demands to know who Sherlock belongs to, when John--

**1 Comment  
3:08 PM**

**Sherlock holmes u better watch out i am coming for u**

John’s blood runs cold. 

“What’s this?” he says. 

Sherlock is sitting at Lestrade’s desk, papers obligingly cleared away by its rightful owner to allow Sherlock to spread the erasers over the workspace. Lestrade himself is out taking statements for a B&E, and had cast John a pitying look as he settled into a chair in the corner to wait. Sometimes John suspects that Lestrade would take pity on him and take him along, if John asked, just to pass the time while Sherlock was working. 

Sherlock doesn’t raise his head until John thrusts the screen of the mobile right in front of his eyes. “Hmm?” 

“This,” says John. “This threat. Posted on your blog, two days ago. That you didn’t tell me about.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick briefly over the screen, then he peers around it, trying to bring his focus back to the erasers. “It’s hardly a very impressive threat," he mutters, picking up eraser #13 and holding it in between his eyes and the phone. 

John snatches the eraser and places it back on the desk, spinning the chair to force Sherlock to face him. “Sherlock,” he says, “it doesn’t matter if the person who posted this has terrible spelling and nonexistent capitalization. As you well know, that doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of _hurting you_. This could be anyone. God knows you’ve made enough dangerous enemies.”

Sherlock actually _rolls his eyes_ at this. “I _am_ a dangerous enemy,” he drawls. 

John feels his blood boil. He actually feels hot from within, his skin crawling at the idea that Sherlock could be so flippant about his very life. Before he has time to glance out the window of Lestrade’s office to check if they are being watched, he’s grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. 

“Oh?” he snarls. “Are you sure, Sherlock? Because we’re not talking about someone trying to outsmart you, here. We’re talking someone stepping out of a dark alley and putting a gun to your head. Or a chloroform-soaked rag over your mouth. Or just a strong arm around your delicate neck.” He’s speaking quietly now, but has advanced far enough that they’re nearly chest-to-chest. 

Sherlock’s full attention is on John now. He still manages to scoff, “I would--”

“You’re stronger than you look, admittedly,” interrupts John, “But you _look_ like an anthropomorphized baby giraffe, so that’s not saying much.” Slowly, he reaches up and grips Sherlock by the throat, just under his chin. He squeezes lightly, just enough to feel the slightly constricted _whoosh_ of air in Sherlock’s throat. The _whooshes_ come faster, and Sherlock seems to be simultaneously trying to shrink back and press forward. 

“I could kill you right now,” John murmurs. “Right here in this office, and with all of Scotland Yard right outside the door. I wouldn’t get away with it, of course-- but could be that I don’t care. That’s the thing about killing, Sherlock. It’s so easy if you _don’t care._ ”

Sherlock winces and tries to twist away, although he’s not trying particularly hard. John holds tight to his lower jaw, and raises the mobile again. “And you don’t know if this sick fuck _cares_ or not,” he finishes. “So when Lestrade comes back into this office, you are going to--” 

John is cut off by the click of the door opening, and Lestrade himself trudging into the room. He barely bats an eye at the sight of his foremost consultant being choked by his husband, though John immediately drops his hand to stand at attention, staring defiantly at the DI. 

“You done with those?” Lestrade asks, pulling off his coat and collapsing down into the chair in the corner.

Sherlock glances down at the desk. “I am… finished with the stages that require inspection of the evidence,” he says. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Sherlock,” says John, a warning. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls out his mobile, allowing John to lean over and watch him pull up the link to his blog. He texts the link to Lestrade and pockets the mobile. He glances sideways and John. “Happy?” he mutters petulantly, but when John gives a businesslike nod and subtly locks his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, the edges of the detective’s mouth twist a little with pleasure. 

As they make their way out of the office, Sherlock mutters under his breath, “I still don’t believe you.”

John bites his lip. “That I could kill you, if I wanted?”

“Mmm.”

“Then I’ll just have to prove it to you. Your terms?”

“Complete immobilization. No chance of escape.”

John grins. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since tumblr is imploding... hmu at dreamwidth? :D http://tei.dreamwidth.org/


	4. How absurdly simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their post-case ritual never changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "snowman."

“That was amazing, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock blushes, just a little. 

John’s never stopped saying it, even when he’s entirely sure that Sherlock _must_ know. There is not possible way for Sherlock Holmes to fail to deduce that his husband is still exactly as impressed, at each damn crime scene, as the day they met. 

But he says it anyway, just to see the tiny bloom of colour in Sherlock’s cheeks in the cab on the way home. 

“It was simple,” Sherlock says, and that’s part of the ritual, too. John leans back against the leather of the seat, sinking into his role like a warm bath. 

“You deduced which of the suspects was a serial killer was from a novel on his shelf. That’s not simple, you daft git.”

“It is if you know crime fiction,” says Sherlock, drumming his fingertips on the windowsill of the car. “Far too many criminals are unimaginative and boring. They can’t be bothered to come up with interesting ways of carrying out crimes, so they copy each other. And the ones with slightly more time on their hands for entertainment, copy fiction.”

John revels in the warm, comfortable feeling spreading through his body. The adrenaline of the case is dissipating, and he thinks hazily that sitting in a cab, being explained at by Sherlock Holmes, might be his favourite thing in the world. 

Well. Besides a few other activities involving Sherlock Holmes. 

He scoots over a little on the seat, pressing their shoulders together and allowing his hand to rise to the back of Sherlock’s neck, patting his hair absent-mindedly. “So… who did the Snowman killer copy, then?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, either relaxing into John’s touch or carding through titles in his Mind Palace. It turns out to be the latter; his eyes snap open and he wrinkles his now. “Dan Brown. Truly stultifying novels, it’s no wonder that a murderer with the full collection on his shelf turned out to be so dull. But it’s clearly where he got the idea of choking his victims to death by packing snow down their throats.” 

John’s fingers curl in Sherlock’s hair, and he leans in closer. This is the good bit. “And?”

“Well, if he’d been lucky enough to live somewhere with a consistent supply of snow, it would have worked rather well. The victim dies, the evidence melts away by the time the police arrive. But he had the misfortune to live in Britain, where snow is sporadic. The only readily available supply of it, three days after a snowstorm, is provided by the piles of snow that children make and assign human-like qualities to.”

“So he chose his victims by proximity to dirty, melting lumps of snow,” says John, not bothering to hide his amusement as he burrows even further into Sherlock’s warm mass. “Okay, you were right. It is simple.”

Sherlock twitches in annoyance as the cab glides to a halt outside of the flat, and John chuckles and leans forward to pay the driver before he has the chance to retort. 

“I’ll have to stop explaining, if that’s what I get for it,” mutters Sherlock. 

“You,” says John, “are _never_ going to stop explaining, and you know it. Now come on, I have a reward for you.”


	5. Believe in You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates an old catchphrase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “believe.”

They’re in a playground, tracing the footsteps of a rather cunning thief of A-level exam questions, when Sherlock sees it. 

Scratched into the wooden post of the support beam of a slide. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock stops dead, stares at the graffiti featuring his name. “What does _that_ mean?” he demands, eyes granite and muscles rigid. 

John draws up short. He stares at the graffiti, and feels simultaneously a wave of nostalgia and a painful squeeze around his heart. “It was something people said,” he explains hesitantly. “While you were… gone.”

“Clearly,” says Sherlock, slowly. Processing. “But what does it _mean_?”

John frowns. 

He thinks for a moment. 

“I’ll… have to get back to you on that,” he admits. 

***

John’s lips part slightly as he watches his fingers disappear into Sherlock’s channel. No matter how many times he has this privilege, it still feels like just that: a privilege, Touching another human body on the inside. This body, Sherlock’s body. This man who exists simultaneously as an idea and a physical form. 

“People didn’t know if you were real,” he says suddenly. “They read my blog, and saw the news, and you were larger than life. You were too pristine and distinct to be a real person, inhabiting a human body like the rest of us. Maybe I made you up, some people thought. Honestly, sometimes I thought I must have made you up. You perfect creature.” 

Sherlock gasps, the tips of John’s fingers barely brushing his prostate. He doesn’t answer; his body is overtaking his mind, making intelligent speech impossible. 

“But you’re not,” John says. “That’s one of the things it means. To me. You’re real. Flesh and blood. I can touch you. I can make you shiver and gasp. I can make you shout and cry. I believe in you.”

***

Not all cases have happy endings. This is one of the bad ones; Sherlock found the trail, alright, and it led straight to a dead little boy. 

They’re sitting outside the morgue, waiting for the autopsy results. They could go home, of course, but even mentioning the idea seems somehow like s disrespect. Sherlock would have liked to audit the autopsy, but Molly isn’t working tonight, and the lab supervisor is only tolerant, and not enthusiastic, about his Sherlockpresence. 

Most of the hospital’s chairs have arms. The ones outside the morgue don’t. It could be a coincidence; perhaps the chairs were simply purchased at a different time, or from a different supplier. 

Or perhaps some unknown person considered all of the bodies that would wait outside a hospital morgue, and decided to allow them to draw closer together. 

Sherlock does. He doesn’t do anything so blatant as touching John, but his posture shifts in invitation, and John drapes an arm around him, pulling him close. Sherlock allows it. 

“There was the lie,” says John. “The lie that you were a fraud. That you were doing it all for fame and fortune, or that you hadn’t really done anything at all. That you couldn’t possibly do what you do.” Sherlock’s eyes close, and he curves slightly inward, until as much of his weight as possible is resting on John’s chest. A group of medical students walk by, and John tenses slightly. Then he notes the bags around their eyes, the unseeing, all-I-care-about-is-sleep look, and he relaxes. 

“But people believed in you,” John whispers. “In your genius. That you do this. That you do it even when it’s not glamorous or fun or even interesting. You do it even when it means sitting in fluorescent lighting feeling like you’ve been kicked in the ribs repeatedly and waiting for an autopsy report that you know is just going to be a last parting shot to the sternum. You’re the real deal, Sherlock Holmes. I believe in you.”

***

John wiggles slightly, adjusting the pillow under his hips. He pulls his legs apart, holding himself open, and only winces a little at the sweet breach of Sherlock’s cock.

“Yeah,” he pants, “good, that’s nice. God, you feel so good. John breathes out, willing himself to release all of his tension. That’s what he loves about this moment: it’s like having every unwelcome thought, every piece of mundane distraction, forced out of him. There cannot be room for small-minded worries, and also for the awareness of Sherlock inside of him.

“You’re _good_ ,” he rasps. Above him, moving slowly, Sherlock’s face is soft and kind. “It means that, most of all. Nobody else gets to see you quite like this— laid bare for me, open and kind and brilliant. But they know anyway. You’re not a puzzle-solving machine. I don’t know how it shines through, but it does. I write you as cold and unfeeling as I possibly can on that damn blog, but your light shines through anyway.”

Sherlock tries to keep thrusting, but his expression is caught somewhere between arousal, horror, and… something else. _Awe,_ John thinks. He rolls his hips, taking up the slack where Sherlock’s rhythm has faltered. 

“Your goodness,” John manages to choke out, as his pleasure swirls around him and crests like a gentle wave. “I believe in your goodness. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes.”


	6. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has some less-than-cozy associations with fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "fireplace."

John knows that Sherlock notices. Of course Sherlock notices; John hasn’t had a single secret since he walked into the lab at St. Bart’s that fateful day. And Sherlock is, admittedly, not the greatest at holding his tongue once he’s figured something out. 

Which is why John feels sudden tears well up in his eyes when Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He emerges from the kitchen with two mugs of tea to find John sitting on the opposite side of the room from the fireplace, having eschewed the chairs in front of the cozily roaring grate, and pivots away from the invitingly warm spots to join John on the comparatively cold sofa. 

John makes room, trying (and, exceedingly likely, failing) to hide his emotion. He digs himself in further, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. 

John hasn’t had much of an urge to get close to fire. Not since Sherlock dragged him out of bonfire on Guy Fawkes night, just over six years ago. 

Most of the time, it doesn’t come up. Sherlock is essentially oblivious to creature comforts, so it doesn’t often occur to him to light a fire when there’s a perfectly functional thermostat in the flat. But tonight one of the heaters is broken, and the sitting room is cold. They could have simply retreated to the bedroom, but Sherlock’s mind had clicked over automatically to implementing Plan B to keep the sitting room warm, so before they’d even discussed it, he’d lit a fire in the hearth and made tea, expecting to find John cozied up to it. 

John’s face is still buried in Sherlock’s shoulder, and he feels Sherlock’s hand come up to wrap around his shoulder. The fire, and the hiding his face; that’s two things that Sherlock understands perfectly clearly, and is forcing himself not to point out for John’s comfort. John knows that keeping a clever deduction to himself is almost physically painful for Sherlock. 

John is okay. Mostly okay. He walks without a cane almost all the time. When there are fireworks over Parliament, he goes down to the legion hall for a pint and some live music because he wants to, not because he has to to cover the noise. His gun hand is steady-- not that that ever changed. 

But fire. The fire wasn’t in the war. It was here, in London, and somehow that is different. It resists categorization and thus acceptance. He remembers the heat of the flames radiating through onto the side of his face turned towards them. He remembers turning his face side to side, trying to get away from it, probably looking more like he was trying to cook himself evenly from the middle of a bonfire, had there been anyone else in there to see it. And then Sherlock, bursting through, coming for him. John had tried, later, to convince himself that he had never doubted that Sherlock would get there in time. 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten their grip on his shoulder, and he loops his other arm around to pull John down into his lap. John lets himself be led, sighing as he’s pulled into the warm tangle of Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock’s long fingers begin combing through John’s hair. 

John feels the tension bleed out of him, and it occurs to him that Sherlock has gotten better at this. Even a few years ago, the idea of Sherlock instinctively understanding how to offer comfort for an unspoken ill would have seemed unlikely. Now… it seems natural. Easy, even. 

He rolls that thought around. Perhaps, one day, it will feel just as natural and easy to do this in front of a roaring fire. 

He closes his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire on the other side of the room, and the warmth of Sherlock’s body around him, carry him away.


	7. Muscle Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins a rugby team, recapturing the skills of his youth. Sherlock does the same, in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "memory."
> 
> Some links for your viewing pleasure...
> 
> [The pas de deux!](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ga994lIm96A)
> 
> [Sherlock's solo, featuring some high-quality red pants](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ7p3QIfUos)
> 
> [The entire Sugar Plum Fairy and Cavalier section begins at 1:21:05 here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtLoaMfinbU)

Sherlock made a decent go of it for about an hour, but John can see he’s starting to fade. They’re seated a few chairs away from each other at the long pub table— Sherlock’s very gallant attempt to let John sit surrounded by the rugby friends he’d come out with, and force himself to have to actually socialize with someone other than John. It had gone decently for a while: Sherlock can be charming enough when he wants to be, and he spent a decent amount of time trading stories back and forth with Tom, one of the team’s centres. 

Tom is a fellow veteran, and one of the people who had convinced John to join the rec-league rugby team in the first place. John had met him at a pub night at the legion hall, an event that in itself he’d initially resisted attending, and finally capitulated to his new therapist’s encouragement. Tom had been one of the first people he’d gotten up the courage to talk to, and a fast friend. They’d both been in the specialized professions-- Tom’s a mechanical engineer-- and they’d both played rugby in school. Tom had only just joined a rec league, and he’d invited John to join. He’d initially said that it helped him channel with his aggressive tendencies in a positive way, and John had wisely chosen not to mention that his work with Sherlock involves quite sufficient opportunities to channel his aggressive tendencies. 

Eventually John joined, though, and he found that he liked knowing people who knew him not as a doctor, or a soldier or even a detective or a writer. Here he was just John Watson, full-back. 

John had hesitated to drag Sherlock along to the team pub night, but lots of his buddies were bringing wives or girlfriends, and something in him revolted at the idea of being the only one who was attached who didn’t bring a partner. Sherlock would be okay, and John wanted to show Sherlock off, and he wasn’t going to let nerves get in his way. 

Now he can see Sherlock’s eyes starting to dart around the table, restlessly taking in minute details of everyone present. John knows he’ll eventually get restless, and then snappy, and soon after that his observations will overflow like a shaken soda, usually at exactly the wrong moment. 

“This was great,” John says to the table at large at the next lull in the conversation. “It was great meeting you, Anne, Charmaine, Bea,” nodding at the girlfriends of some players who are seated near him. Sherlock rises along with him, saving his grateful smile for after all the farewells are done and they’re heading out into the night. 

The pub is only about a twenty-minute walk from Baker Street, so they set off on foot. John winds his arm around Sherlock’s back, and says, “Thank you. It was good to have you there.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “It was good to meet Tom, at least. And I’m glad you have friends. You… like playing rugby again. It makes you happy.”

John laughs, bemused. “Good deduction,” he says fondly. “How’d you figure that one?” 

He feels Sherlock’s hand tighten on his, and realizes Sherlock actually has something to say on this subject. He glances over. Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. 

“You don’t get angry at rugby,” he says. “I anticipated, when you started playing again, that the memories of how you used to play, compared with the inevitable decline produced by age and many years away from the sport, would produce frustration. But it doesn’t. You seem to enjoy playing.”

John’s face breaks into a grin. It’s true, actually, and he’s as surprised as Sherlock is at the effect. “Yep,” he confirms. “Well… muscle memory will do a lot for you, I guess. And besides… sure my body isn’t the same as when I was a teenager, but my mind isn’t either. I’m smarter, better at calculating risk. I’m a better decision-maker and strategist. A better teammate, to be sure. I like to think I’m a better player than I used to be, overall.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Finally, he says, “Well, maybe that effect is only at work in team sports. I must admit that every time I’ve tried to dance in recent years, the effect has been… unsatisfactory.”

“Sherlock,” exclaims John, “You taught me how to dance for my wedding, remember? You’re a great dancer.” But he can already see Sherlock shaking his head in the middle of that sentence. “Not like that,” he says. “Sure, I can teach someone how to muddle along at their own wedding, when nobody will notice or care if they slip up anyway. But my years of ballet as a child-- those are all gone. I’ll never dance like that again.”

Sherlock’s tone is carefully even, but John can see through it; Sherlock is actually getting emotional over this idea. He doesn’t talk about it often, but John knows that he danced seriously as a child and teen. He doesn’t know exactly when or why Sherlock gave it up, but given what he knows of the early history of Sherlock’s drug addiction, the decline of one and the rise of the other must have been relatively concurrent. 

John shrugs, trying not to let on that he’s noticed that this is anything more than a casual conversation. “Well, there must be a dance school in town with an adult division,” he says. “Loads of them, probably. Why not try? You might be surprised.”

***

Six months later, John is sitting in his sitting room watching his husband grimace exquisitely as a wiry 102-pound woman sits on his feet, and he almost has cause to regret mentioning it. 

Almost. 

He was irritated by Nina, at first. Well, anyone would be irritated by their partner talking about someone else all the time, he reasoned, and almost every sentence out of Sherlock’s mouth that was not directly related to a crime seemed to be about Nina. Nina and their pas de deux. Nina’s opinions on the pacing of his tarantella. Nina’s oversplit. Nina’s toe point. Nina’s thoughts on how advances in 3D printing could revolutionize pointe shoe production. Fucking _Nina._

Sherlock had found a ballet class, all right. And then, because the man simply could not do anything by halves, and because the school he had chosen was small enough that it was perennially on the lookout for strong male dancers to add to its semi-professional arm, Sherlock had been roped into-- no, John corrects himself, he _volunteered_ to be cast in-- their annual production of the Nutcracker. 

Sherlock is the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier, and Nina is his Fairy, and from the moment they met on the first day of rehearsals they’ve been inseparable. And John had been irritated by it right up until the moment he actually met Nina, at which point he ceased being capable of any reaction beyond a fond shake of the head. 

She’s beautiful and waif-like and graceful, just as John had expected. But the most arresting thing about her is her sheer, bloody single-mindedness. When she talks about ballet, she gets a look on her face that is eerily reminiscent of Sherlock on a case-- the difference being that even Sherlock requires breaks between cases. Nina is talking about ballet _all the time._

John immediately understands why Sherlock is drawn to her, and can’t begrudge him the rare opportunity of interacting with someone who can actually match and even overshadow him in intensity. And when Nina starts coming over to the flat more and more often, John finds himself actually enjoying the sight of Sherlock being out-Sherlocked, at least within a very narrow range of subjects. Nina seems to regard Sherlock as both an fascinating anomaly and a lump of raw material to be molded to her liking, as a dance partner. John once made the mistake of asking whether her raving over his “beautiful long lines” was just a fancy way of saying he’s tall and skinny, and received a half-hour lecture in return that he only escaped from by claiming he was late to work.

Right now, Sherlock has his legs stretched out in front of him and Nina is sitting on the tops of his feet, her entire weight bearing down mercilessly. John winces a little at the long-term medical implications of that kind of forced static stretching, but he holds his tongue; partly because Sherlock seems so goddamn happy, and partly because Nina can be mildly terrifying. 

They’re watching yet another DVD of the Nutcracker, rewinding it to rewatch the twelve minutes featuring their own roles over and over again. So far as John can tell, the ballet is more a series of loosely connected vignettes than an actual story-- Sherlock and Nina’s characters appear near the end, dance together, each dance a solo, dance together once more, and then they’re done. John can’t quite understand what their characters are supposed to be doing, either. They don’t seem to be propelling any sort of plot. Still, he stares at the screen over the two dancers’ heads and commits to memory the solo that he’ll see Sherlock perform, soon. 

The man on the screen launches into a series of twisting jumps; some with both legs extended, some with one knee raised. When he leaps, it looks absolutely effortless, and John finds himself once more fascinated at the idea that he’s going to see Sherlock do this. He glances down at the floor, where Nina has dismounted Sherlock’s feet and they’re conferring over something extremely esoteric to have to do with her shoe. 

Nina is absolutely _obsessed_ with her pointe shoes. 

John wanders away to make more tea, mentally counting down the days until the show’s two-week run starts. 

***

The scene at the pub after the final Nutcracker performance seems shockingly _normal_ to John, considering that half the people in the room were wearing tights, tutus and faces full of sparkly makeup half an hour previously. He scans the room. He’d lost Sherlock almost as soon as they entered, but he didn’t mind much; apparently the fact that Sherlock has a handsome, rugby-playing husband had become something of a known vector along which to tease the newcomer to the troupe, and John is fairly inundated by attractive dancers of all genders wanting to scrutinize him. 

Finally, he locates Sherlock at the middle of a circle of dancers who appear to be mostly teenagers, if that, listening in rapt attention as he narrates the tracking of a murderer through the Underground just last week. John folds his arms, standing at the edge of the circle and smiling slightly as he realizes Sherlock is borrowing phrases from John’s write-up of the case on his blog.

They take a cab home when Sherlock's circle of admirers has finally dissipated and the curiosity of the troupe about the mysterious and alluring John H. Watson has finally been slaked. Sherlock and Nina shake hands, a bizarre, intense gesture that they somehow make appear more intimate than a hug.

Sherlock lolls in the seat in the cab, his equipment bag by his feet, grinning lazily across the seat at John. 

“You were gorgeous,” says John, and means it, just like he’s meant it after every single one of the shows over the past two weeks. 

“Thank you,” murmurs Sherlock, sounding half-asleep already now that the excitement of the evening is fading. He rouses himself, though, enough to say, “And thank you.”

“For what...else?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes like it should be obvious. “For making me do that.”

John startles. The Nutcracker had been so all-consuming-- to the point that Sherlock had actually started insisting on only taking cases at all if they were an eight or higher-- that John had actually forgotten how the whole thing started. He _had_ suggested it. 

“Did you…” he tries to recall the conversation they had had coming back from John’s rugby pub night, “Was I right? About muscle memory?”

Sherlock tilts his head. He’s clearly considering the question seriously. “Yes and no. I couldn’t dance like I used to. It didn’t all come rushing back. But after a while, I didn’t want it to. Dance is an art. It requires, like all arts, self-understanding, and a harnessing of the artist’s own life into their work.” He’s speaking matter-of-factly, like these truths are just the findings of another case, but John’s eyes widen. Sherlock is an artist through and through, even more than he’s a scientist. Even his Science of Deduction would be more accurately classified as an art. But he doesn’t often talk about his work that way. 

“I wouldn’t want to dance the way I used to,” Sherlock continues, “Because I’m not that person. That person danced to escape his own mind, and when he figured out that drugs did the job just as effectively, he switched methods. But I don’t need to escape myself any more, not since you. So I can find other reasons to dance.”

The air in the cab feels shimmery, and John barely notices that they’ve pulled up outside of Baker St. he stares at Sherlock in awe, and manages to whisper, “Then keep dancing. Say you’ll keep dancing.”

Sherlock grins, and the spell is broken, and as they slide out of the cab and unlock the front door, he says, “Oh, I will. You’re not getting off that easy. Come on, I need a foot massage.”


	8. Partita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg kips on the couch. He gets some relationship advice and, against all odds, a good nights' sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "music."
> 
> [Hilary Hahn playing the 2nd partita.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mSnmM0nlzk)
> 
> I'm never gonna get tired of Holmes+Bach, sorry folks.

Greg Lestrade really, really hadn’t wanted to make that phone call. 

Splitting with your wife twice is unfortunate. Splitting and getting back together a total of six times (so far) is… just embarrassing. 

But he and Laura had had yet another blowout at ten-thirty in the evening, and he found himself furiously grabbing the overnight bag that he really probably shouldn’t keep packed for incidents such as these. He considers shelling out for a hotel, but that would just lead to yet another argument about using their limited funds for extravagances. So instead, he finds himself picking up his mobile and ringing John Watson. 

He doesn’t want to think about why he rings John. It’s not like Sherlock isn’t going to know as soon as John hangs up the phone, or more likely even before. But somehow he can bring himself to ask John, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Sherlock. 

Half an hour later, he’s settling down with a borrowed duvet on the couch that is usually Sherlock’s domain, feeling both oddly unsettled and surprisingly at home. Usually, the flat is a frenzy of activity, whenever he’s over; by definition, his presence usually means a case, so of course it is. Now, though, the entire place seems oddly quiet and serene. Sherlock is in his pyjamas, which isn’t unusual; so is John, which is. The doctor had greeted him with soft, kindly eyes, and the Sherlock had made herbal tea for the three of them, curling up on the floor and observing in a sort of companionable silence while John gently wrangled the story of Greg and Laura’s latest drama out of him. 

Greg knows that John and Sherlock had been together for a long time by now; he was at their wedding, after all. But he still usually sees them in the context of a case, where they seem the same as the day he first met them; Sherlock bright and hard and brilliant, and John quietly deadly, hanging back in the shadows. He’s never stopped to imagine what it looks like at 221b Baker St. in the quiet moments that all (happy) couples share. But now he’s seeing it, and being invited inside, and it feels… nice. 

Greg wishes that _he_ could have something of the sort. 

“You just need to decide, mate,” John is saying. He had sat himself down on the floor, and Sherlock had slowly migrated nearer and nearer to him until he was lying on the ground with his head in John’s lap. John is slowly stroking through his hair, and Greg can’t help but steal glances at Sherlock’s face; peaceful, content, so unlike his usual expression on a case. 

He forces his eyes back up to meet John’s, and sighs. “I know,” he says. “I just-- love her, you know? Even after everything. I can’t stop bleeding loving her. It’s absurd.”

For the first time, Sherlock weighs in: “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Greg feels his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. That certainly sounded like vintage Sherlock, but-- surely he can’t really mean it. Not any more. Sherlock knows what love is now. How can he still claim that sentiment is useless when he’s lying on the floor with his head in John Watson’s lap, being patted like a great cat?

“Well,” Greg stutters, “I _love_ her, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Again: irrelevant.”

Greg huffs in exasperation, and looks to John for backup. John is just frowning thoughtfully, though, and when he finally does speak, he says, “Actually, I think Sherlock’s got a point.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if the idea that anyone could have doubted him in the first place is ludicrous in the extreme. 

“Love is important,” John continues. “But it’s far from the only element that makes a marriage work. Without respect, understanding, humility, patience-- Sherlock’s right. Love _is_ irrelevant.”

Greg slumps back on the couch, suddenly feeling very tired. They’re right, he realizes. Bloody buggering fuck. He needs to _sleep_ , and he’ll think on it in the morning. 

Sherlock graciously reads his body language correctly, and excuses himself to go to bed. John follows, telling Greg to just holler into the bedroom or go rifling through the cupboards if he needs anything. 

The lights flick off, and John and Sherlock retreat to the cozy domesticity of their bedroom, and Greg lies down to sleep. 

Well. He lies down, anyway. 

He closes his eyes, and they snap open again. He can’t stop replaying the argument with Laura in his mind. It’s absolutely ludicrous, but his runaway mind keeps coming up with more and more _esprit de l’escalier_ comebacks, and with each one he gets angrier and angrier both at her, and at himself for not pushing harder, not simply _winning_ the argument. He _knows_ doesn’t work that way, knows there are only ever two losers once the screaming starts-- but he can’t help it. 

He tosses over. The couch is comfortable, welcoming his body into much-needed rest, but his mind won’t let it happen. _Maybe Sherlock infected this couch with something,_ he considers deliriously, about two hours into his attempt at sleep. _Nobody who sleeps here will ever have a calm mind again._ But no, that can’t be right. Somehow, miraculously, Sherlock Holmes _has_ found some sense of calm. Greg witnessed it just that evening. 

Great. So even Sherlock is slumbering peacefully, while Greg tosses and turns. Well, that’s a fascinating turn-up. 

The kitchen light flicks on, and Greg pokes his head up to see Sherlock’s lanky frame silhouetted in front of the counter, putting the kettle on. 

Greg rubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t want Sherlock to see him like this. This is _embarrassing._

A fresh mug of herbal tea lands on the ground in front of the couch, and Sherlock says, “Couldn’t sleep. Mind if I practice a little?”

Greg’s heard the noises that Sherlock scrapes out of his violin in the middle of particularly complex cases. He doesn’t have any particular desire to hear that right now, but hell, it’s not like he’s sleeping as it is. At least if he has a racket to contend with, he’ll have some sort of excuse for his exhaustion come morning. 

“Sure,” he mutters, closing his eyes and bracing himself. 

Sherlock picks up his violin. 

He starts by tuning the strings, something which Greg actually hasn’t ever heard him do prior to his mid-case attacks on the instrument. The soft lilt of the open strings has the quality of a long-practiced ritual. 

When he starts playing in earnest, Greg’s eyes pop open in surprise. It’s a far cry from the aggressive stream-of-consciousness that he’s head from Sherlock before. The music is calm and measured, somehow both sad and hopeful, and Greg can’t help but turn to watch Sherlock’s bow drifting seemingly effortlessly up and down. His expression is somewhere partway in between the ferocious concentration of detective-Sherlock, and the peace of… whatever Sherlock Greg had just witnessed curled up in his husband’s lap. It’s mesmerizing. 

When the music comes to a gentle conclusion, about five minutes later, Greg asks, “What was that?”

Sherlock barely glances over at him, but his voice is gentle as he says, “The Allemande from Bach’s second violin partita. Would you like to hear the rest?”

It occurs to Greg that this is not, in the strictest sense, _practicing_. Sherlock is playing for him. He senses that he ought to feel awkward about that, or perhaps a less doggedly exhausted version of him would feel awkward about it. The Greg Lestrade on the couch simply says, “yeah, if you’d like.” 

Sherlock continues. The next section is faster but still somehow mesmerizing, and the section after that starts agonizingly melancholy, and after that Greg loses track of the music entirely, and falls finally, blissfully asleep.

***

Sherlock is already out of the house by the time Greg wakes. “Molly said she had something special for him, and he was off like a shot,” John says, grinning conspiratorially at him as he hands Greg a cup of coffee and a bowl of scrambled eggs. 

“Thanks,” he says, accepting them and turning over the events of the previous night in his mind. The fight with Laura is still fresh, prickling vaguely at the back of his mind, but somehow buffered by the recollection of falling asleep on the couch of Baker St. to the sounds of Sherlock’s violin. 

“Does he… often practice violin in the middle of the night?” he asks John. 

John glances up from his own bowl of eggs, his face kind and knowing. “Only when I’m having the nastier variety of nightmare,” he says simply. 

“Ah,” says Greg, pushing the eggs around in his bowl and screwing up his courage. 

“Might have something for you at the Yard this afternoon,” he says, “So… I can thank him then. But I need to go ho-- to Laura’s house, first. Some business to take care of.”

John kindly gaze is the equivalent of a warm bath when he asks, “Need another kip on the couch tonight?”

Greg considers, then nods. “I’ll find a decent hotel or something tomorrow-- but if you don’t mind having me for one more night--” 

John nods. “Any time, Greg.”


	9. A Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a purchase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "gift."
> 
> This is an e-stim kink ficlet! If that's not your cuppa, tune in next time for... um, whatever happens next, I dunno what to promise you w/r/t these stories.

The thing about sex toys as gifts is that the element of surprise is somewhat at odds with the element of consent. 

There’s nothing Sherlock likes better than being _surprised._ It doesn’t happen very often, of course, but it is possible under the right circumstances. Namely, that if he is tied up, blindfolded with thick black cloth, industrial-style hearing protection placed over his ears, and John has managed to be suitably discreet with the ordering and shipping, there will be a few brief moments during which Sherlock doesn’t know what John is about to do to him. 

The problem being, of course, what if he doesn’t _like_ it? 

Sherlock loves being overwhelmed. He begs to be tied up and hit and pinched. But Sherlock also has whip marks on his back and cigarette burns on his arms and needle marks in his wrist. John knows there are places Sherlock doesn’t want to go, and he doesn’t even fully understand what they are. 

Which is why John has a list tucked into the left-hand drawer of his writing desk. 

He found the list on a website ages ago, and immediately his mind turned to asking Sherlock to fill it out. It took him a few days to work up the courage, but eventually he had hesitantly mentioned that if Sherlock wanted to continue to be surprised in a sexual context, it would be useful to set some limits. Much to John’s relief, Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash at the astonishingly long list of kinks, sex toys, and scenarios. He simply grabbed it and started filling it out, a spikey Y or N beside each item, and handed it confidently back to John ten minutes later. 

John raised his eyebrows and said, “You know, you can take some time to think about it, if you like.”

“I already have,” answered Sherlock. “Extensively. I have indicated on that list all of the items that I would be pleased to experience by surprise. Some others are perhaps open to negotiation with advance warning.”

John just nodded and put it in the drawer. 

“...you aren’t going to read it?” said Sherlock, sounding mildly irritated. 

John just smiled patiently. “It’s going to take years to get through all the items on the list,” he said reasonably. “And I’d rather you not be able to read my expression while I’m making my first choice.”

Now, the choice is made, and John had managed to keep the item in question locked in his desk drawer at the clinic without attracting any questions. He carries it home in a grocery bag, mixed in with vegetables and cans of soup. 

It doesn’t work. 

He sees Sherlock’s eyes flick over to the shopping bags the moment he enters. He sets them down on the table and places his body in between the items and Sherlock. 

“John, what are you hiding?” says Sherlock, not moving from the couch. 

“I got you a gift,” is the only answer John can come up with. 

Sherlock jumps to his feet and stares at John, eyes wide. “Give it to me,” he demands hoarsely. 

John licks his lips. He hadn’t been planning on getting started the instant he got home, but Sherlock is staring at him with an unmistakable intensity, and he had read all the literature in the box to learn his way around the thing at the clinic. Besides, any small delays will only heighten the anticipation. 

“Strip and lie on the bed, face up,” he says, keeping his voice gentle. “I’ll be in in a moment. Don’t touch yourself.”

Sherlock’s face betrays a brief moment of elation, then he nods and turns to go into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. 

John takes a deep breath, and opens the box in the shopping bag. 

The kit inside doesn’t look at all out of place considering it came home with him from the clinic. There is a large handle with a wall plug, and four attachments that are intended to plug into the handle: a large suction-cup shaped one, a tiny comb with nine blunt bristles, and two pointed ones with differently shaped heads. 

He sets them out on the table to come back to, and heads into the bedroom. 

Sherlock is lying nude on the bed, as instructed. He’s already half-hard, and his eyes are nearly closed. He opens them all the way when John enters. 

John breathes calmly, reassuring, as he pulls the ropes out from under the bed. Sherlock gamely raises his arms and allows himself to be immobilized,his arms stretched up and off the sheets when they’re fixed to the bedposts. He’s tied at the wrists, so he can easily grasp the piece of bright orange cotton John presses into his right hand. 

Sherlock sighs when John fixes the blindfold over his eyes, his mouth quirking into a smile. 

“Good?” John asks. 

“Very.”

“Okay. I’m going to put the ear muffs on you now. If you need to stop or take a break, or communicate with me in any way, drop the cloth. Okay?”

Sherlock nods eagerly, and John carefully places the noise-cancelling ear muffs over his ears. He steps back and takes in the sight of Sherlock Holmes, completely cut off from the outside world except through his skin. 

He can bring the box into the bedroom now, although he still moves gingerly. There’s no telling what Sherlock might-- what, smell, sense, like with some sixth sense? John wouldn’t put it past him. 

He chooses the comb attachment and attaches it into the base, then plugs the device into the wall and turns the dial. 

The noise is very faint, much too quiet for Sherlock to hear through the ear muffs, and sure enough, he isn’t moving at all when John glances over to check on him. John takes a deep breath, butterflies rising up in his stomach, and touches the comb to his own arm. 

A pinprick of red light lances between the edge of the comb and John’s skin. He startles violently, more in surprise than pain. The pain, actually, is practically nonexistent; it’s more of an insistent prickle. It’s what light would feel like, if you could feel light. John is surprised to find that he likes it. He drags the breadth of the comb down his arm, from shoulder to elbow, and the prickling picks up and becomes more insistent, arresting his entire attention even though he _knows_ he’s inflicting the sensation on himself. 

Oh, yes. The neon wand was a good idea. Sherlock is going to like this. 

The cord is long enough to stretch easily to the bed, so John turns the dial all the way off and places the wand carefully beside him when he sits down. 

He starts by just running his hands over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock twitches the moment John’s hand makes contact, clearly expecting something new and novel, and almost as surprised by the touch of mere warm skin as he would have been had John gone for the wand straight away. 

John uses his hands to scope out where he’d like to touch Sherlock first with the thing. He tweaks his nipples-- no, too sensitive to start. Let him get used to it somewhere neutral first. The skin of his belly is slightly ticklish, John knows, so he rubs his hands over the area more roughly, and out to the sides of his torso as Sherlock gasps and arches up as much as he can with his arms and legs immobilized. 

John runs his hands thoughtfully over the swell of Sherlock’s hips, fingers trailing upwards but avoiding his cock. Yes; this will do. 

He picks up the wand, careful to not let the cord brush Sherlock’s body and give him away. He flicks it on to the lowest setting. His heart flutters in a way that has nothing to do with the electricity he’d tested out on himself moments earlier. 

He feels he need to pre-emptively soothe Sherlock, so he bends down and caresses his lower belly, just above the start of the dark curls on his groin, and places a gentle kiss there. As his lips are breaking contact with the skin, he lowers the wand to the outside of Sherlock’s right hip.

John couldn’t possibly have asked for a more gratifying reaction. Sherlock bucks, his prick thrusting up involuntarily and making contact with John’s chest. His mouth pops open, and a sound vaguely resembling a strangled _”What…?”_ emerges. 

John grins. Well, he _did_ it. 

He waits until Sherlock stills. The orange cloth is gripped tight in his hand. John rakes the comb down his thigh, with just enough pressure to make sure all of the tines make equal contact, but no more. Sherlock’s reaction is, if anything, even more extreme; he moans, squirming in a way that clearly isn’t trying to get away, and it’s so endearing that John can’t help but lean down, while he keeps brushing the wand up and down Sherlock’s thighs, and takes his cock in his mouth. 

The sound that emerges from the immobilized detective is barely human, and probably Sherlock isn’t even conscious of how he sounds now-- one of the unfortunate side effects of extremely effective hearing protection, John recalls. He’s reassured by the solid weight of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, pulsing with every stroke of the wand. Sherlock is enjoying this very much. 

John gets up the courage to bring the wand higher, trailing it over the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s taut belly. He has to actually throw a leg over and use his own thighs as a kind of trap to keep Sherlock’s wriggling frame still at this point, and he glances again that the fabric safeword, just to be sure, but it’s still clenched tight in his hand. 

Without even consciously thinking about it, like pure instinct is driving the path of the wand, John tails it up over Sherlock’s stomach, the jut of his bottom ribs, and touches it gently to his left nipple. He actually has to bear down, practically sitting on Sherlock’s torso, to hold him still enough, but he manages to bring the wand from one nipple to the other quite a few times, teasing alternately with the electricity and then with his fingers. When Sherlock is starting to break out in a sweat, and is thrusting into thin air hard enough to make John feel like he’s about to be thrown off, he finally takes pity on the man and dips back down to swallow his cock again. 

After a few strokes, though, something catches the corner of John’s eye. A flutter of orange. 

He immediately pulls off, yanking the muffs from Sherlock’s ears. The safeword doesn’t necessarily mean something’s wrong-- sometimes it just means Sherlock needs to say something that he wants to ensure in audible and comprehensible. But he still feels a jolt of nerves as he says, “What is it?”

“John,” Sherlock gasps. “God, John, I’m not going to last much longer like this, and I want you to fuck me.”

John grins in relief and anticipation. Nothing dire, after all. He allows the wand to drift back down, brushing along Sherlock’s collar bones, distracting him very thoroughly for a moment. “Seriously?” he says. “I’ve barely touched you at all.”

Sherlock is moaning again, high breathy ones that he can hear himself making, now that the muff is off, but is powerless to stop. 

“ _Yes,_ ” he chokes out, “Dammit, John, _yes_ I’m close, God, that feels amazing--”

“Okay,” John whispers, “Okay, shh, I’m coming. Shh.” He quickly shucks off his clothes, and re-positions so he can lean down on top of Sherlock, nearly their entire bodies in contact with each other. When he pushes himself up slightly, he can slide the wand in between them, the spark on Sherlock’s skin also discernible to John. 

“More of this?” he asks. 

“You _know_ the answer to that,” Sherlock groans. 

John grins, pressing his advantage, and turns the dial up a notch to feel Sherlock jump and revel in his moan of “God, _please._ ” He puts the wand down for a moment and reaches for the lube on the side table, peppering the detective’s face with kisses as he anticipates his reward for having surprised Sherlock Holmes.


	10. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John is sent in to be Sherlock's eyes during a mission, the practice run affords some unique opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By "unique opportunities," I specifically mean "unique opportunities for Sherlock's military kink and aptitude for voice porn."
> 
> For the prompt "Do you see what I see?"

John reaches up to check the fit on his earpiece. It’s high-quality, discreet, with a thin wire mouthpiece that he can talk into if he chooses to. It’s likely that he won’t, on the particular mission they’re practicing for, so he isn’t planning on using it too much today. 

Then he checks the positioning of the cameras: tiny little things that look more like strange, fetishistic jewlery than functioning video cameras. One on his forehead, one on the back of his head, one on his chest, one on his back, one on his left knee, one on his right toe. He turns towards the ugly, industrial street that runs past the Met’s training warehouse, with the so-discreet-it’s-obvious surveillance van “Okay,” he mutters into the wire. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“And observing significantly more,” comes Sherlock’s purr into his ear, rather loudly. John startles a little and turns the volume down a touch. 

The door to the van opens, and Lestrade jumps out. He’s wearing a uniform, which is unusual for him, but the usual look of fond exasperation that means he’s been talking to Sherlock. He strides towards John, who is standing at attention waiting for orders. Not exactly his usual posture around Greg Lestrade, but for today, Lestrade is his superior officer, and his training won’t let him forget it. 

John feels strangely at home, and actually quite excited for this. 

It had all started with the conclusion of a case Sherlock and John had taken on privately leading to an elaborate underground drug lab. Sherlock had ascertained the location, but it was too well fortified for them to get in on their own, and a discovery of that nature warranted police involvement anyway. Once Lestrade and his higher-ups had formulated a plan to storm the place, though, Sherlock’s involvement had been comprehensively ruled out. Yes, he was the Met’s most valued consultant, but he was still a civilian, and even Sherlock had grudgingly admitted that he didn’t really expect them to be okay with putting him in a bulletproof vest and sending him in with the special ops team. 

But Sherlock still needed to see the place to trace the lab back to its suppliers, and he insisted that valuable data would be lost if he wasn’t present at the moment of the raid. So: a compromise. John’s CV and references had been sent up the chain of command, and grudging approval sent back down, and now John is wearing a uniform, a bulletproof vest, and six cameras as he and Lestrade enter the training building to meet up with the rest of the special ops team. 

They’ve all been briefed on John’s role, and greet him with the kind of businesslike camaraderie that sets him immediately at ease. John has a vest and a gun for self-defense purposes, but his main role is to stay out of harm’s way and point his cameras wherever Sherlock tells him to. He’s even got a bodyguard, of sorts, assigned to make sure he can do so unmolested-- a stony-faced, muscular woman who grips his fingers in a crushing handshake and simply says, “Darcy.”

Today’s practice mission is twofold; for some bureaucratic reason that John doesn’t want to ask about, this team is assembled piecemeal of people who haven’t worked together before, so they’ll be running through their positions and roles. Secondly, Darcy and John will be figuring out the best way to walk closely together without her obstructing Sherlock’s view, and John will get to test the video and audio links between him and the detective in the van. 

The captain of the makeshift team calls them to order, and Lestrade hangs back to watch-- this isn’t his specialty, and technically he doesn’t have to be here at all, but John suspects he feels a certain responsibility to make sure that his pet consultant behaves. Then it occurs to him that in this instance, _he_ might be the pet consultant in question, and has to tamp down a grin. 

Finally, they set off along the long corridor of the warehouse that is set aside for training exercises. It’s slow going, since the agents in front of them have to check and secure every door and adjoining corridor, and John has plenty of opportunities to look around at the rather boring hallway, showing off the cameras’ capabilities for Sherlock. 

With no warning whatsoever, Sherlock’s voice purrs into his earpiece: “Wish I could have a camera on _you._ " 

John frowns. What is Sherlock…

“I’d like to watch you in your uniform...” the voice comes again, “starched trousers, bulletproof vest, hand on your gun. Want to know deep down what Captain Watson could do to me.”

 _Jesus Christ._ John feels his jaw clench involuntarily, partly in frustration and partly to ensure that the bark of laughter threatening to escape him stays silent. He’s used to Sherlock being laser-focused while on a case-- but of course, this right here _isn’t_ a case. It’s practice for a case. And Sherlock knows that he can spend this entire training session whispering filth in John’s ear, and there’s absolutely nothing John can do about it without giving them away to the agents surrounding him. 

Oh, he is going to get Sherlock for this. 

Which is, of course, exactly what the incorrigible detective is hoping to provoke.

They’re walking through the pitch-dark now, following closely on each other’s heels by the light of small standard-issue torches. It’s dark, which means Sherlock is bored, which means--

“Want to get on my knees for you,” his rich baritone floats over the headpiece. “Unzip the flies of your trousers with my teeth and let you fuck my throat. I’ll let you have me the moment you finish the mission, still sweaty, heart racing, cock swelling from relief and exhilaration…”

They turn the corner into a hallway with brighter lighting, and Sherlock trails off as he takes in the new data. John feels like Sherlock’s voice has become lodged somewhere in between his ears and he can’t shake it out. The image of Sherlock melting bonelessly to the floor in front of him while his (Met-issued, for once) gun is still strapped to his hip plays out in front of his eyes insistently. 

He glances over at Darcy. She’s focused relentlessly ahead, presumably mapping their current location in the training centre onto her memorization of the floor plans of the lab that Sherlock had figured out. Which is what John should be focusing on, as well. 

“You’ll be high on adrenaline and not ready to come down yet,” says Sherlock. “You’ll want to take me fast and hard and I’ll let you, I’ll lie back and writhe and moan and let you in, let you pound me into the floor until I can barely stand it. Can you see it, John?”

John’s teeth grind together. Of _course_ he can fucking see it, and Sherlock knows it, and he can _also_ see the obnoxious smirk that Sherlock is probably wearing, sitting in his fucking surveillance van giving John the single most inconvenient erection of his life. He wonders if he could get away with hissing _shut the fuck up_ into his wire, but Darcy is hovering uncomfortably close beside him, and the hallway is eerily quiet, and he can’t make himself do it. 

They round the corner into the room that’s been mapped as the main lab, and the agents spread out and start rehearsing several pre-determined scenarios of discovery and capture. John and Darcy stand in the corner, which is pretty much what they’re going to be doing during the actual operation, so John has absolutely nothing to distract him from Sherlock’s antics. 

“I want you in your uniform, trousers pulled down around your ankles, your dog tags brushing my neck while you pound into me,” Sherlock growls, and John wonders for a moment of pure horror whether Lestrade is back in the van. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be saying all this in front of the DI. 

By the time all the drills are through and the squad makes their way back to the entrance of the training portion of the building, Sherlock has talked his way through several different filthy scenarios and John is trying to calm his breathing and unclench his fists. There’s nothing he can do about the bulge pressing against the front of his trousers, and he hopes that affecting a properly businesslike expression, combined with a sort of professional courtesy, will prevent anyone from noticing or commenting. 

Lestrade meets him in the foyer-- thank god, he doesn’t seem to have gone back to the van-- and listens to the debrief and some final plans for the mission. Then, he and John walk together back to the surveillance van to hear Sherlock’s impressions of the camera system. 

Sherlock is lounging in front of the computer screens in the vans. John folds his arms across his chest, powerless to stop Sherlock’s gaze sliding knowingly down to his groin. 

“Very effective,” decrees Sherlock. “I rather enjoy having six eyes. Imagine what else I could use them for.”

“Don’t want to think on that,” chuckles Lestrade, oblivious to John’s stare boring holes into his husband. 

“I called us a cab,” says Sherlock. 

“You better have,” growls John. 

Lestrade notices that, but he just shakes his head and sits down in the driver’s seat, waiting for Sherlock and John to hop out before he steers it back into the vehicle bay on the side of the building.

They stand on the sidewalk, Sherlock looking rather meek. When the cab arrives, he allows John to grab his arm and manhandle him into it. But John doesn’t miss the small self-satisfied grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

He can’t wait to wipe it off.


	11. Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets bored too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "comfort and joy." Admittedly most of it is... not that. But the phrase does appear! 
> 
> This ficlet contains discussion of previous drug use.

The forced week off from the clinic is not particularly restful. 

John had gotten a flu shot, of course he had. And it’s ridiculous for him to feel so betrayed over getting the flu anyway, because he knows as well as anyone-- particularly anyone with a medical degree-- that the necessary antibodies only develop in the body two weeks after vaccination. And he had definitely been exposed, multiple times, before then. 

Still. It means that he’s home sick for a mandatory week. Which is great for the first four days: there’s a suicide-disguised-as-homicide on, which Sherlock solves mostly from home. John suspects it’s only partly to allow him to stay curled up on the couch in a blanket with a mug of tea, watching Sherlock dash madly about the flat following threads only he can see, and partly just for Sherlock to prove that he can. 

The fifth day is quiet, and John is feeling substantially better, but he still appreciates the peace and quiet while Sherlock sleeps in his post-case exhaustion. 

The sixth day he starts to get antsy. 

He’s blogged about the most recent case, but it didn’t get much attention. The kitchen is in a terrifying state, but somehow the idea of sorting and labeling the food and not-food doesn’t appeal. He’s got a pile of journals to read, but he’s been sitting for five days straight and he’s sick and tired of it. 

Eventually John ends up just standing in the middle of the flat, balling his fists and releasing them again while he stares at Sherlock’s decorative bullet holes in the wall. Would it really be such a bad thing if he indulged in a little target practice too?

“John?” Sherlock cracks an eye open. He’s lying on the couch, lost in his own mind and apparently perfectly content there. “What is it?”

John purses his lips, and takes stock of his feelings. He’s well again; his limbs are thrumming with energy, his head feels clear, and he wants something do _do_ or else he’s going to…

Oh. 

_Oh._

“I’m…” John clears his throat, then enunciates clearly, _bored._ ”

Sherlock just stares at him for a moment, then a grin starts to spread slowly across his face.

Suddenly, John is no longer bored, as Sherlock rises to his feet to loom over him. John wriggles out from underneath his gaze, throwing himself down on the just-vacated couch and affecting a purposefully Sherlock-esque position. “Yep,” he confirms ruefully, “That is… what I am. _Bored._ ”

“Irritating, isn’t it?” smirks Sherlock. He approaches the couch, staring down predatorily. 

“Prick,” mutters John, trying to seem unaffected, but now Sherlock is placing his knees on either side of John’s torso and leaning down to pin him in place. John bites his lip, staring up at the angular, gorgeous face hovering just above his. 

Sherlock brushes a piece of hair out of John’s face, possessive. His eyes go dark, and John feels his heart rate pick up. 

“What’s it going to be, then?” Sherlock demands, voice husky. “Lots of options to fix boredom. I’ve tried most of them. A fight would hit the spot right about now, I bet. Back alley, you against some drunk sod, feeling your fist make contact with living flesh. It feels good. Trust me.”

“I don’t have to,” John mutters, and closes his eyes. He never asked much about Sherlock’s younger days, what _other_ kinds of risky behavior he might have partaken in. Apparently he’s going to get a tour, and that should be terrifying, but--

“There’s always the old standby,” Sherlock purrs. “Cocaine for a night out. Glorious. Flying. Heroin, or morphine if there’s someone more esoteric selling, to stay in. Sweet release whispering through your veins.” John’s eyes snap open, searching Sherlock’s face. That’s… not the kind of thing he usually says to John. 

Sherlock pulls back, almost imperceptibly, letting John observe him-- and John realizes that Sherlock is _joking_. He’s fucking joking around about his own former drug habit, for John’s… entertainment. Or something. And that should be absolutely unacceptable, but…

...well, Sherlock is pressing him down into the soft cushions of the couch and pinning him with his gaze and it’s definitely Not Good that John wants to hear the rest, but oh, he does. 

He clasps his hands around Sherlock’s back and pulls him down, his weight landing on John’s chest. “That sounds… good,” he admits, because it does, and it’s safe to admit it here, in the secret bubble of him and Sherlock. John was shot. He nearly died. He remembers the loving warmth of opioids flowing through his blood, even if it’s not an experience he has any plans to repeat. 

“Mmm,” murmurs Sherlock, rubbing himself slowly against the entire length of John’s torso. “Or something more tangible, but equally effective. All this is just a delivery mechanism for the right chemicals, after all. A rough, anonymous hand holding you down and taking you. Your body not your own. It’s only transport.”

John feels a bolt of-- what, fear? Anger? Flash through him. He had known this about Sherlock’s past, too. But hearing it out loud, like this, is different. 

All at once the game-- if that’s what you could call this round of “pin John Watson down and regale him with horrifying solutions to boredom in the style of Sherlock Holmes”-- is over. He grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock stills, his face softening. 

“Come here,” says John, pulling him down for a tender kiss, almost chaste. 

Sherlock collapses against John’s chest, turning his head to the side so that he can listen to John’s heart with his right ear. Slowly, the pounding beat slows. 

“Sorry,” murmurs Sherlock. “That was… too much. Sorry.”

John chuckles. “I wasn’t exactly saying no, love. And I probably should have. So I’m sorry, too.”

Sherlock raises his head. “You thought it was hot,” he states matter-of-factly. “Hearing about what I used to do.”

John winces, but Sherlock’s expression is calm, understanding. “I… God, Sherlock, you can make anything sound hot. But it’s not that, exactly. It’s not the idea of you in danger. I don’t want that. I don’t want that for you ever again, Sherlock, do you understand me? God, I--”

“Shhh.” Sherlock’s lips are on his forehead, his jawline, beneath his eyes. “John. You don’t have to explain to me what’s compelling about sex and drugs and violence. I get it. I was there. And I chose this, instead.”

John sighs, and lets the last of the tension release from his muscles. He still has that low-level thrum of wanting to _do_ something, though.

Sherlock is pushing himself up to his knees to reach for his mobile. “Well, shall I call Lestrade?”

John only hesitates a moment before saying, “If you want to, yeah.”

He picks up on the first ring. “Lestrade,” Sherlock drawls, all of his tenderness transformed into haughty sarcasm, “Lend a hand. Help bring comfort and joy to our nation’s veterans. All donations of gory and unsolved murders gratefully accepted.” 

He listens for a moment, discarding several options: “Boring. It was the boyfriend. Hmm. Interesting, but I’ll do it later. Oh-- yes. John’s footprint tracking could use a workout. We’ll meet you there.”

He hangs up the phone and leers down at John, who is apparently going to be expected to solve this case, since it was his boredom that necessitated it. 

John smiles and pulls himself up into Sherlock’s waiting arms. “That sounds like a better solution, yeah,” he breathes. 

He can feel the soft kiss Sherlock drops in his hair, and his whispered answer, sincere: “It is.”


	12. Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John suggests bringing Christmas baking to Mycroft. It's not that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "gingerbread." 
> 
> So, this ficlet is about eating disorders. I think there's a lot more I want to say about the Holmes brothers and eating disorders, and maybe I'll figure out how to say it one day, but this is what tumbled out on a one-day deadline. 
> 
> If you want or need to give this one a miss, no hard feelings, truly <3

It’s the gingerbread biscuits that give Sherlock away.

John likes baking, apparently. He hasn’t always, but it’s obvious that this is yet another thing he does in memory of his mum, when he has the energy. So Sherlock gamely sorts the small, humanoid biscuits into little gift bags, to be labeled and delivered to various Yarders, informants, friends and family members. 

It’s that last one that sets Sherlock’s insides twisting with half-forgotten anxiety. 

“Mycroft doesn’t need this,” he says, aiming for same firm tone of voice that he uses to direct participants at a crime scene. 

But John is immune to that voice by now-- at least, when he chooses to be. “It’s Christmas baking,” he says. “Nobody really _needs_ it. You take it anyway.”

Sherlock bites his lip harder than strictly necessary, the sharp burst of pain focusing him enough to try again: “He doesn’t want it.” 

John is standing on the far side of the table, surveying the finished gift bags. He looks absolutely implacable, like this is exactly the same as any other argument that Sherlock is simply not going to win. And he doesn’t understand that it _isn’t_. And Sherlock doesn’t know if he wishes desperately that John would understand, or hopes fervently that he won’t. 

“Then he can bin it,” says John. “Nothing to do with me.”

No. 

_No._ This can’t be happening. There is no way on Earth that Sherlock Holmes is going to march over to his older brother’s house and cheerily hand him a gift bag full of holiday treats. 

John’s face is swimming in front of Sherlock’s eyes, so it takes him a moment to realize that the doctor’s brow is creased with concern. Then he’s hesitantly putting an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and leading him to the couch. 

“Okay,” he says, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me about this, Sherlock, really it is. But if that’s the case, we’re going to go deliver those cookies. If there’s a compelling reason not to… now’s the time for me to know about it." 

***

The first time Sherlock deduced that food had hidden, almost mystical power, he was six. He was only just discovering the abilities and limitations of his Mind Palace, the place under constant construction as his perception of the world shifted almost daily. He decided that he needed a model upon which to construct an indexing system for information in constant flux, and the family pantry presented itself as a logical test subject. It was perfect. Sherlock would have to construct a system where each item of food was categorized, the quantity noted and tracked, and where he was capable of easily adding and deleting foods when they ran out or when new brands or items were purchased. He also needed to be able to delete entire categories, for when his parents went on an incomprehensible health kick and binned an entire section of the pantry with no warning. 

If he could accomplish that with the Holmes family kitchen, it would be proof-of-concept for a powerful system of mental fact tracking. Almost any type of rapidly changing information could then be slotted into the framework. 

And it was successful-- the proof-of-concept was. Sherlock still uses that framework to this day to keep track of the rapidly changing hierarchical structures of various criminal organizations.

It had some unintended consequences, though. 

The food didn’t add up. And not in a way that could indicate an error in his filing system, either-- in small ways that anyone paying attention would notice. Tubs of ice cream that depleted, then mysteriously were replaced by fresh tubs before they should have even been empty, and without a family shopping trip. Boxes of biscuits that stayed at the exact same level for days, but with the serial number on the box changing. 

It didn’t make sense, until it did. The family library contained only a copy of the DSM-IV; no secondary sources, not in that house. The mysteriously disappearing food, the calluses on Mycroft’s first and third knuckles, the suddenly fastidiousness in grooming and long stretches in the bathroom where before Mycroft had been, in Sherlock’s opinion, rather slovenly. 

Sherlock read all about bulimia nervosa, and decided that it was probably just one more way that Mycroft wanted to suck all of the attention away from Sherlock and onto himself. The irritating part was, it _worked_. Mycroft was brilliant and studious and perfect, and underneath he was desperate and needy and damaged, and they fed into each other until it seemed like the entire world was in love with him, every last scrap of devotion and attention falling into a black hole of Mycroft Holmes.

Well. 

Sherlock might have been the stupid one, but two could play at that game. 

When Sherlock was thirteen, and Mycroft had just gotten his first high-level government position, and it was beginning to seem like maybe nobody would ever look at Sherlock again, he went on a hunger strike. As an experiment.

That’s what he called it in his mind, anyway. 

And Sherlock discovered something magical-- something he was _good_ at. He knew abstractly he was good at mathematics (but not as good as Mycroft) and memory (but not as good as Mycroft) and observation (but not as good as Mycroft.) He was already better than Mycroft at playing the violin and dancing, but those didn’t seem to gain him much traction, since Mycroft acted like they were beneath him now.

Starving, though. Mycroft had tried to starve, and failed. His disgusting failure was written in late-night binges he thought Sherlock couldn’t hear, and purges he thought the bathroom fan disguised, and the disgusting body that never seemed to settle on a size. 

Sherlock was better at starving than Mycroft-- and he _liked_ it. It made him feel pure and clean and sharp, and after a while it made the people around him stare at him like he was something special, something unique. 

Eventually, Sherlock realized distantly that his hunger strike had achieved its aim. Even Mycroft called to check up on him, and fussed over him when he was home for the holidays. Sherlock just glared at him smugly thinking, _I win._

It was more difficult than anticipated to conclude the experiment. 

Food had gained more power than it had had when he started. It wasn’t logical, and he _hated_ that it wasn’t logical, but logic didn’t seem to have any effect on him any more. Thinking about food, desiring it, seemed to consume every thought; but actually _eating_ the elaborate feasts he constructed in the dining room of his Mind Palace; impossible. 

Mummy tried, Mummy’s doctor tried, even Mycroft tried. There was a sick fascination in watching them try to reason with him, when Sherlock could see, like from behind a glass wall, that the part of him that could be reasoned with wasn’t present. 

It didn’t get better, exactly; but Sherlock succeed in not dying, so he got older as a natural extension of the not-dying process. Older was better because it meant discovering drugs, and deduction, and eventually John. 

And Mycroft discovered wealth and power: and Sherlock knows that his brother can control the workings of the world’s governments with an iron fist, the way he could never control his own unruly body. 

***

John sits back on the couch, hands folded on his lap. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look particularly doctorly, which is what Sherlock was afraid of. He just looks thoughtful. 

“Thank you,” he says finally. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly… you needle Mycroft about his weight, now, because it reminds him that he still needs to fuss over you. Which you want him to, just a little. And bringing him biscuits for Christmas would be a reminder of a difficult time, and also, just a little bit… a reminder that you’re okay, mostly, now. That he doesn’t need to worry about you. Because you _like_ for him to worry about you.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. He can’t bring himself to confirm this suspicion of John’s, but he can’t force himself to contradict it, either. Instead, when he opens his mouth, all that croaks out is, “That’s ridiculous.” Which isn’t a denial. 

“Yeah,” says John fondly, pulling Sherlock gently, into his lap, “It is, love. But it’s not _you_ , you know that, right? The voice inside you, telling you that he only cares for you because you’re broken, that any other way wouldn’t work between you two-- that’s _it_ , not you. Sherlock Holmes is the voice talking back to that one.”

Sherlock considers this, leaning into John’s chest, solid and comforting.

“So,” says John, “I told you that if you gave me a compelling reason, we wouldn’t have to go see Mycroft, and I’m holding up my end of the bargain. We don’t have to. But if you want to tell that voice to piss off, and go visit your brother anyway-- with or without biscuits-- I would be…” John clears his throat. “Honoured. To be a part of that.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “Let’s pay a visit.”


	13. Easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is going grey, and they both know whose fault it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “frost.” 
> 
> Yay, some fluff (finally)! I think. Not totally sure what counts as fluff.

John insists that they’re going to go to the clinic for a tetanus shot. Sherlock probably isn’t up to date, which John can’t help but feel should have been his responsibility-- _stupid._ Of course Sherlock was going to dash headlong past a protruding rusty pipe at some point. He allows, though, that he can clean and stitch up the gash on Sherlock’s thigh just as well at home, which is what Sherlock prefers. 

He’s got the detective down to his pants, sitting on the kitchen table while John is seated on a chair below to bend over his leg. He’s trying to heartlessly ignore Sherlock’s winces-- he could have had more than the topical numbing cream from the bathroom if he’d allowed John to do this at the clinic, but he didn’t, so the pain is his own damn choice.

He’s bent over his work, the top of his head the only part of him Sherlock can get a good view of, when Sherlock says, “John, you’re going…” he trails off, seemingly thinking better of the adjective he was going to finish the sentence with. When John brings his hands away from the cut a moment to get a fresh piece of thread, Sherlock runs his hands through John’s hair lightly. “Frosty,” he finishes, finally. 

John just chuckles, because really. _Frosty._ “And in three months will be the ten-year anniversary of our meeting,” he says fondly, pushing the needle through Sherlock’s sliced-open skin for the final time. “Can’t think how those two items might be related.”

Sherlock is very quiet for the rest of the stitching.

The case the next day is weird enough without _Sherlock_ acting weird, too. John notices it, the Yarders notice it, and the girlfriend of the man who disappeared into thin air somewhere between the bagel shop at the end of the block and the dry cleaner five doors down doesn’t notice anything, because Sherlock is entirely normal and polite. She probably mistakes him for a plainclothesman, which John is entirely sure has _never_ happened before. 

It’s slightly worrying, but also quite peaceful, so when the man and the rest of his idiotic urban spelunking group are recovered from the sewer where they’d become trapped with no mobile service, John and Sherlock go for dinner, where Sherlock concentrates on his plate with ferocious intensity and eats every bite of the pasta that Angelo was already preparing to box up and send home with John. 

And that would be immensely gratifying, too, except that Sherlock looks so _miserable_ shoveling the stuff into his mouth that somehow John actually feels sorry for him. So when they get home and Sherlock looks at the kitchen and says “Just going to do a bit of tidying before bed,” John grabs him by the shoulders and leads him into the sitting room instead. 

“Okay, Sherlock, what have you done?” He demands. 

Sherlock is obviously trying to look offended, and then innocent, and then the fake-innocent look collides with the actually-innocent look of frustration and sadness beneath it, which is quite a sight indeed. 

“Nothing,” he says, and John has to concede that it’s true. 

John sits down beside him on the couch. “Why are you acting so strange?”

“I’m not,” mutters Sherlock. “I’m trying to be _easier._ ”

John’s stomach drops, because he has a horrible suspicion that he knows why this is happening, and it’s all his fault.

“...easier?” He says anyway, hoping against hope that he’s as big an idiot as he makes himself out to be on the blog, and he’s got this wrong.

“Yes, John, easier,” Sherlock snaps, and he’s staring at the space just above John’s eyes now. He looks devastated when he says, “I made you go grey. I _hurt_ you. It’s _my fault. _So. I’m going to be easier. For you.”__

__John’s throat sticks to itself like sandpaper, and all the blood in his body seems to simultaneously rush to his face in mortification, yet somehow still be unavailable to power his brain. The only sound that escapes him is a strangled “ _No._ ”_ _

__“John,” says Sherlock, and his voice is calm and measured now, “It’s fine. I understand. I’ve always known that I would need to do this eventually, and… it’s fine. What we have is worth it. I _can_ do it.”_ _

__“Come here, love,” is all John can manage as he lies back a little against the end of the couch and pulls Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock follows, a little reluctantly, but eventually setting in John’s chest, where he can reach up and sweep a hand through John’s sandy brown-grey hair._ _

__“You realize that trying to be easier is one of the strangest things you’ve ever done?” John whispers, and Sherlock flinches._ _

__“No,” he amends “No, love, it’s a good thing. Well. Not the trying to change yourself, that’s no good, I don’t like that. But the idea that you would, for me, is… flattering. I’m only human.” His hands are tracing whorls up and down Sherlock’s back now, and Sherlock sighs and settles into him._ _

__“Is it really that ugly?” John inquires. “It’s just a few grey hairs. And I always thought I’d look rather good grey. Does it really bother you?”_ _

__“No!” Sherlock’s voice rings with authority on that syllable, at least, and he sounds absolutely scandalized._ _

__“Okay. Okay.” John pulls Sherlock’s head back down to rest on his chest. “Then Sherlock, you know I’m _proud _of it, right? If I got a new grey hair for every day with you, I would be counting them lovingly and telling the world about each one. About how amazing you are. About all the incredible things we do together.” His hands tighten slightly, pulling Sherlock’s hips into his own, and amends, “Well, maybe not _all_ of them. But the point is, I wouldn’t trade any part of you for the world. Not even the obnoxious bits.” ___ _

____Sherlock turns his face, hiding his eyes in John’s shirt, so John has to bend down to whisper, “Please let me keep them.”_ _ _ _

____For a moment all is silence and two bodies trying to burrow further into each other, and then Sherlock murmurs, “I’m sorry.”_ _ _ _

____“Love. You have nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.” John sighs, and recognizes that Sherlock is in one if his moods now, and nothing but time, hopefully, is going to convince him that he’s not a burden._ _ _ _

____“I know of a way you can make it up to me,” John whispers, and though he resents having to temporarily accept the premise that there’s anything to make up, there’s no arguing with the slow smile that ghosts across Sherlock’s face as his hands trail down to John’s belt._ _ _ _

_____That_ , Sherlock can do._ _ _ _


	14. Courtesy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reaches out, and John takes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "a beautiful sight."

Mycroft always prefers to conduct his business from the Diogenes club, when possible. 

It’s not exactly complex game theory. The club is his home court. It’s rather harrowing experience, entering the place for the first time; many of his appointments show up to speak with him already flustered and in the mood to make concessions. 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, of course, are not just any appointment. But he likes to make them come anyway. Perhaps it’s just the vestiges of sibling rivalry that make him want to maintain a slight upper hand. Or perhaps he just really is as monumentally lazy as his younger brother says. 

Sherlock is always withdrawn and laser-focused, when they meet here; he knows that the only reason for Mycroft to summon him would be for a case, and as much as he loathes being even slightly out of his element, he does usually find Mycroft’s cases to be interesting. 

Mycroft hands over the files relating to the government official he believes-- but cannot prove without legwork better suited to his brother-- is being framed for blackmail, a pretty setup he knows Sherlock will appreciate. 

John Watson is hanging back, leaning against the back wall of the room. John has never gone against the rules of the Diogenes club, as far as Mycroft knows, but somehow he gives off a constant air of being just about to disregard their first and foremost requirement. He is nearly always silent in the Strangers Room, and Mycroft very much doubts that he would have any second thoughts about speaking aloud outside of it, if it suited him. 

John makes Mycroft nervous. Which Sherlock must never, never know, and probably does already. 

Sherlock is flipping through the documents, then he snaps the folder closed. “Thank you,” he says. 

For a moment, Mycroft panics. He honestly cannot remember Sherlock ever having _thanked_ him for a case before-- and Mycroft has a very good memory. At least, never thanked him out loud. They rely on their own secret language, or at least always have: diet jabs mean Sherlock is paying attention, a carefully calibrated ennui shows his interest in the case under discussion. Every deliberate unkindness betrays how very much Mycroft’s esteem matters to Sherlock. 

He manages to get a hold of himself, and bites out, “Well, I know how bored you get, brother mine.”

Sherlock just turns to go, back to his usual impassivity, but John holds out an arm, preventing him from leaving. 

“Excuse me?” His voice rings out, louder than Mycroft or even Sherlock ever speaks even in the Strangers’ Room, cutting through the musty, dignified layer of silence. Mycroft forces himself to remain still and not wince, flicking his eyes up to meet the doctor’s only when it suits him. 

John is in front of his desk. He’s standing very straight, in a way that makes him seem both taller and broader than he actually is, and Mycroft feels the sudden urge to stand up, assert himself, but no-- that would be ridiculous. It would call attention to the power play, and his worry that he isn’t winning it. 

“That,” says John, his voice steel-tinged, “Is not the correct response to ‘thank you.’ Sherlock, come back here.”

Incredibly, Sherlock does. Unquestioningly. Mycroft knows he needs to come up with something to say to John, but he is momentarily derailed by the shock of seeing his brother obey an order. It’s a strangely beautiful sight. Unfortunately, it just results in the two of them, standing in front of Mycroft’s desk, staring him down together. 

“Let me clear something up for you,” says John. “Common courtesy is not a superfluous construct of society. It is not something extra, that only boring, normal people need bother with. Common courtesy is how one human reaches out to another to say, ‘I recognize your humanity.’ And that is what Sherlock just did. And the correct answer is, ‘You’re welcome.’”

Mycroft can only huff in pure disbelief at this display. This is-- ludicrous. He’s being lectured on manners by an ex-army doctor who carries an unlicensed firearm, whose default expression is a hostile glare, and who deliberately chose to spend his life with _Sherlock_ , for crying out loud. 

When John is unrelenting, Mycroft turns his eyes to Sherlock. Surely Sherlock cannot possibly on board with this. He didn’t mean anything by thanking Mycroft; it was probably a slip of the tongue, an accident brought about by too much time with regular humans. He wasn’t _reaching out._

But Sherlock just _looks_ at him. 

John raises an eyebrow.

“You’re welcome, then,” Mycroft says, and John smiles, his whole demeanor suddenly changing. “Brilliant,” he says, his voice both cheerful and gentle. Mycroft files away for later analysis the way that despite the fact that John has just forced him into a decidedly unpleasant interaction, the approving crinkles at the corners of his eyes still somehow spread warmth through Mycroft’s chest. 

“Ready to go then, Sherlock?” John says, and Sherlock nods, and Mycroft watches them exit with his eyes on his younger brother’s back. 

And in the privacy of the now-silent Stranger’s Room, he can be secretly, wonderfully glad that Sherlock found his terrifying, unpredictable, kind-hearted doctor to keep him in line.


	15. Pelham House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a solved case. He finds other ways to occupy himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "toy soldier."

It’s a solved case. No more detecting required: the twenty-three year old employee of a Victorian-era mansion converted into an incredibly dull museum disappeared deliberately. Sherlock and John are not in the business of hunting down innocent adults, and they inform her father, who owns and operates Pelham House Museum, of this in no uncertain terms. 

“Jesus,” says John, rubbing at his face as he simply hangs up the phone on the irate man. “You can see why the poor girl chose to just disappear. Can you imagine what she would have had to go through to _quit_?”

“Intelligent woman, then,” says Sherlock. “She knows that sentimental attachment to familial bonds is useless.”

John rolls his eyes. He knows that Sherlock doesn’t mean it, not fully, not anymore. Not now that _John_ is family. Still, in this case, Sherlock’s rote denunciation is actually more or less accurate.

A moment later, Sherlock wrinkles his nose as a notification pops up on his mobile. “Shocking,” he deadpans, “An email from Bramwell Pelham. Let’s see what he’s offering now.”

John steps around the back of the couch to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder at the screen.

He sucks in a breath over his teeth. “That,” he admits, “Is… a lot of money.”

Sherlock clicks off the mobile’s screen. “Still no,” he says. “Boring.”

John chews on his lip. “Yeah,” he admits, “it will be. But he’s not even demanding a solution, now. That much, just to-- what was it?”

“‘Do my Sherlock Holmes thing,’” Sherlock sniffs as he quotes the email. 

“Yes, do your Sherlock Holmes thing, around his stuffy museum, on the off-chance we’ll change our minds and find his daughter for him? It’s a good offer.”

“My _god_ , John, are you trying to kill me from tedium? Tell me you aren’t seriously considering this.”

John is, indeed, seriously considering it. “I’m sure you can find _something_ to interest you there.”

***

Bramwell Pelham is a ruddy-faced, middle-aged man who gives the impression of constantly having just eaten something that isn’t quite agreeing with him. He shakes Sherlock’s hand obsequiously and completely ignores John, which suits John just fine, but makes Sherlock visibly fight to avoid baring his teeth like an angry dog. 

He protests a little at Sherlock’s insistence that they must have the entire museum to themselves to investigate undisturbed, but eventually he lapses into irritated silence, gives John-- who he has apparently decided is Sherlock’s secretary-- his phone number, and promises to be at the cafe across the street if they need anything. 

Sherlock is focused as soon as the ornate front doors of the place swing shut, and they are alone. He does appear to be looking for something, or at least observing the place closely. Pelham House is set up like a typical upper-class Victorian mansion, with plaques at the entrance of each room explaining the furniture and trinkets within. They traipse through a dining room, four bedrooms, a sitting-room with a magnificent grand piano, and look briefly into the servants’ quarters before Sherlock says “ah,” and pulls John into the nursery. 

John glances around, more interested in why Sherlock seems to have been looking for this room in particular than the place itself. The space that used to belong to the Pelham children and their governess has been slightly altered to serve as an educational playroom for children visiting the museum, apparently attempting to impress on them what life would have been like for their Victorian counterparts. There is a tea set in the corner, old-looking but clearly in truth made of modern plastic for durability. A similarly sham-antique rocking horse stands opposite it, with a shelf overflowing with dolls and spinning tops was to John’s right, and to his left is a space for a low bookshelf, featuring a mix of Victorian-themed and general-purpose kid’s literature. 

Sherlock snaps the door shut, and on the inside of the door John sees a bizarre poster, featuring a drawing of what he can only assume is supposed to be a Victorian governess holding a small bell, which reads, “This bell will give you an extra measure of imagination. When I ring it, you may begin to play.”

He looks back at Sherlock. “So what--”

John’s back slams into the governess poster. Sherlock is grabbing at his wrists, securing them at his sides, and John’s yelp of surprise is drowned in Sherlock’s hair when he bends down to start sucking enthusiastically on John’s neck. 

“ _Christ!_ ” John’s blood fizzes in his veins at the pressure and pleasure and he tries to pull away, to get his bearings, but only manages to stumble to the side, and hears something crunch under his shoe. He glances down; it’s a toy soldier, not one of the cheap green army men, but a rifleman standing at attention, white X over his bright red jacket. John kicks the broken toy to the side in the moment before Sherlock grabs his shoulders and rights him. 

He’s back against the wall in an instant, Sherlock pressing his lips to John’s now, tongue thrusting in greedily. John lets him, just enjoying the kiss even while trying to slow it down and fending off Sherlock’s hands roaming over his shirt buttons. “What are you _doing_?” he chokes out the instant Sherlock comes up for air. 

“What you told me to,” says Sherlock, and he starts sucking at John’s neck again, which has the effect of causing John to lose the battle against Sherlock’s roaming hands. He slumps back, gasping in sudden arousal as Sherlock divests him of his shirt. 

“What I _told_ you?” he manages. 

Sherlock’s own shirt joins John’s on the floor, and Sherlock bends all the way down to John’s feet; it takes him a moment to understand that the detective is undoing his shoelaces. Apparently John’s trousers and pants are going to come all the way off. Sherlock glances up through his lashes, a coquettish gesture that should be ridiculous but somehow isn’t, not when John is stepping out of his shoes despite himself and Sherlock’s fingers going to work on his belt. “You said that I could surely find something to interest me here. I have found it.”

John curses himself. He had, in fact, said that, and never mentioned that he was expecting Sherlock to at least make a token effort of looking around the place. Which he’d thought Sherlock was doing, before, but apparently he had only been scouting out the perfect location to jump John. 

And had, for some reason, decided on a fucking children’s playroom for the purpose.

John is entirely naked now, and his mind is whirring with so many thoughts that the sensation of Sherlock swallowing down on his cock comes as a complete surprise. He hears a little “ _ungh!_ ” sound and realizes too late that it was he who made it, because oh god oh _fuck_ how is he supposed to--

“Sherlock,” he barks, his hands tangling in Sherlock’s hair of their own accord, “To put aside… _aah--_ the whole issue of having sex while on a case-- this room is creepy. I feel like this governess woman is going to spring out of the wall and catch us any moment.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock springs to his feet. He casts a critical eye on the poster, then licks his lips. 

“Quite right, too,” he says, and grabs John’s wrist, pulling him across the room to the rocking horse. John manages to step out of the puddle of his trousers just quickly enough to avoid tripping, and finds himself standing in front of Sherlock, who has sat down side-saddle on the thing, knees spread for stability. He’s still wearing his trousers, which seems somehow unfair. 

He’s also smirking in a way that usually bodes ill for everyone around him. “She very well might,” he growls, his low, menacing voice horrifically out of place in the cheerful, bright room. “And you know what that means.” 

_Oh my god_ , John thinks faintly, and has just enough time to curse Sherlock for being ridiculous, and curse himself for being so aroused at Sherlock’s ridiculousness that he actually feels a little bit dizzy from it, before Sherlock is pulling him forward and forcing his chest down. Perhaps he can blame the dizziness for the fact that he makes no protest at all at being bent entirely over Sherlock’s lap, arse in the air, feet just barely braced on the ground and hands swinging wildly, looking for something to hold onto. He manages to grab the base of the rocking horse with this right hand, and his left finds Sherlock’s calf. 

Sherlock’s hand is tracing gently over the swell of his arse. John could get up, if he wanted to. He isn’t being held down, even symbolically. 

He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s calf and waits. 

It’s only when the first smack lands, and the force pushes his entire body down into Sherlock’s lap, that he realizes he’s ideally positioned to thrust into Sherlock’s thighs. He tries, but Sherlock snaps “don’t move!” as he hits John again, sharp and stinging and with a tiny push at the end to indicate that _Sherlock_ will be the one controlling the movement of John’s hips, thank you very much. John just moans in frustration and drops his head down, going as limp as he can without falling right off. 

He tries to breathe slowly and calmly through the pain as Sherlock lands blow after blow on his arse and upper thighs, but he’s slowly losing control of his body and mind, and by the time the stinging pain is morphing into an even burn, he’s squirming and panting helplessly. John can’t even decide if he _likes_ this or not, but he knows he needs it to continue so he can try to figure it out, so every time the words “stop, that’s enough” rise up in his throat, he pushes them back down. He’ll take just a little bit more. A little bit more. 

He’s shocked when a lube-slicked finger breaches him. He hadn’t noticed the spanking stop. Hadn’t noticed much in a while, actually, and when he tries to say “of _course_ you brought lube on a case,” it comes out sounding fuzzy and slurred. 

Sherlock hums, soothing now, working one finger in and out while his other hand rubs the tender skin he’s just abused. It’s too much sensation, and John can’t figure out what it all _means._ It feels like Sherlock must surely have at least eight hands, working him over. The thought of Sherlock with eight hands is somehow more arousing than terrifying, although that effect is probably temporary. 

Sherlock’s voice floats through John’s consciousness. “Up,” he’s saying, and John finds himself being rearranged, draped over the rocking horse itself. The sounds of Sherlock undoing his belt and flies explain the necessity of this new situation, so he just sighs and waits. 

The press of Sherlock’s slick cock feels inexorable, like there’s nothing he could possibly do to slow or stop it. Some part of him realizes that’s not true, but he ignores that part, holding on tighter to the edges of the hard pretend-saddle and waiting for Sherlock to be fully seated inside him. The inevitability of it is glorious, and the way he can feel every inch of velvet skin sliding past his outer muscles commands his entire attention, and John doesn’t even care that he’s moaning out loud now because that’s why they sent Bramwell Pelham away, isn’t it? 

Sherlock doesn’t stop him when John reaches down to grasp his own erection, sliding in and out of him tight and painful and wonderful. John comes back to himself enough to try to synchronize his own rhythm with the one being pounded into him, and Sherlock is letting out little growls with each thrust, slapping against the painful skin of John’s arse, and when John comes with a broken shout, he manages to catch most of it in his hand, and not let it drip onto the brightly-coloured carpet beneath him. 

He groans, utterly spent, and Sherlock gives him a moment’s respite to catch his breath before his picks back up his rough thrusting, chasing his own orgasm. John considers the sensation, his face pressed against the saddle again. Being used once he’s already come isn’t pleasurable, but he isn’t finding it painful either, and there’s something satisfying about just lying there, doing nothing but allowing Sherlock to take what he wants. 

Sherlock hugs himself tightly to John’s back as he comes, then pulls him down so they’re both lying on the floor, bathed in harsh fluorescent lights and surrounded by dolls and toys, panting. 

Sherlock’s limbs twine around John’s, trapping him in place. John sighs contentedly. There’s slick leaking out of his arse, but the idea of it getting all over Bramwell Pelham’s carpet seems somehow appropriate. Then he remembers that it will be a maid who cleans it up, not Pelham himself, so he shuffles back until he’s pressed to Sherlock’s front, and the whole mess will wipe of on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock makes a muffled _mmph_ sound, but doesn’t wriggle away. 

Some time later, when John feels his eyelids beginning to droop dangerously enough that he either has to force himself out of the fog or surrender to it completely, he says, “So, think you’ve gathered enough evidence from this place?”

Sherlock chuckles, and presses his palm into the inflamed skin on John’s rear. The pain flares up hot and bright, and John gasps. “Yes,” Sherlock says, “It was very satisfactory.”

John pushes himself up reluctantly, casting about for his clothes. “I’d say it’s time we go collect our cheque, then.” He tries for a straight face, but the sight of Sherlock grimacing at the sticky mess of come and lube on his stomach has hime grinning, and when Sherlock says “Yes, I think we’ve thoroughly earned our keep here,” the laughter pours out of John, and then Sherlock reluctantly chuckles, and finally the two of them are bent over in the Pelham family nursery, hysterical with glee.


	16. Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a fan trying to get his attention by any means possible. Sherlock rather likes it, and John isn't pleased. Or, well, maybe he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "season's greetings."

Under normal circumstances, Greg Lestrade would absolutely, positively _not_ slump down onto the floor in the corner of his office in exhaustion. He would especially not do that when there was anyone else to see him do it. But today, head pounding with a bizarre combination of adrenaline and anger and pity, he makes an exception. It’s just Sherlock and John, after all. The pair of them are the two most bizarre humans on the planet, so they haven’t a leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing Greg’s behavior. 

They don’t. They’re just fucking _staring_ at each other, still panting slightly from the chase that just ended with Greg’s perp in the hospital, like they’re telepathic or something. Greg honestly wouldn’t be surprised. He’s too drained to contemplate further the idea that Sherlock and John might be melding into one single, even more outlandish creature. 

“D’you think there might be others like that?” John says. Then he pulls a face before Sherlock even has time to answer.

Sherlock cocks his head. 

“Do _not_ say what you’re thinking right now,” John snaps, and Sherlock’s mouth twists in a crooked grin. 

Greg rubs at his face. It had been a hell of a thing to come in to work to: a box, deposited just in front of the glass entrance to New Scotland Yard, addressed to him. They’d had to call in a bomb squad, of course, and once it was confirmed that the thing inside was non-explosive, he opened it to find a freshly severed hand and a note reading “season’s greetings to Sherlock Holmes.” 

A fucking copycat, or at least, someone using the general idea: John’s writeups of the Moriarty cases had made clear that it’s possible to draw Sherlock out by presenting him with an interesting enough case. And there are enough people in London who are disturbingly obsessed with Sherlock Holmes, and his blogger, that it was only a matter of time before one of his little fan club also turned out to be literally disturbed. 

Sherlock and John had bustled down to NSY that morning, all right, just as the sick fucker who sent the hand clearly wanted. It hadn’t taken long for Sherlock to ascertain that the hand had been cut off of a live victim, which narrowed the search somewhat. Then he realized that the victim and the perpetrator had been one and the same, and thus the moniker “sick fuck” applied rather literally to whoever was currently running around London down one hand, delirious with the idea that they might be found and noticed by the great Sherlock Holmes. 

So it turned out to be, all in all, a very poor copycat of Jim Moriarty, if that is indeed what he was trying to do. Ascribing actual intent and planning to this crime seems like rather overestimating the capacities of its perpetrator. It’s not even technically accurate to call it a crime, Greg has to admit to himself now, and the only reason they even arrested the poor kid once they found him was to forcibly send him to the hospital before he bled out in a gutter. 

Now the disturbed kid is being seen to, and John has just asked Sherlock whether he thinks they’ll be more sick fucks begging for his attention and then snapped at him not to answer the question. Greg’s deductive skills may not be the sharpest in the room, but even he can figure out why. Sherlock is vain as a peacock, and his sincere answer is almost certainly “I hope so.” 

And Greg knows that John doesn’t want to hear about his husband’s narcissistic, gore-loving tendencies before they’re home to Baker Street. Because he’ll inevitably be horrified, and then aroused, and then-- well, the activities that usually take place beyond that point are the subject of quite a few standing bets around the NSY office, and Greg makes a point not to participate in that sort of thing. 

They’re standing closer to each other now. Greg forces himself to stop rubbing at his burning eyes, and he peeks out from between his fingers at the tableau: John has Sherlock’s wrist in a firm grip, and there seems to be some sort of silent power struggle going on between them. 

“You,” growls John, “are so fucking _arrogant._ ”

Only an idiot of the size Sherlock thinks Greg actually is would miss the way Sherlock’s cheeks flush and his pupils dilate. He tries to pull his wrist away, but John holds fast.

“And what are you going to do--”

Greg’s heard enough. He pushes himself to his feet, drowning out the rest of Sherlock’s provocation with a loud “Enough!” John at least has the good grace to look a little bit embarrassed as he drops Sherlock’s wrist. 

“Out!” Greg says, waving his arms towards the door. “You two are too much. Jesus. Don’t kill each other before tomorrow, you need to come back in to be interviewed for the reports.”

They shuffle out of the office, and as Greg turns to sit down at the desk, he can just hear John’s measured voice retreating into the hallway, low and menacing: “I am going to teach you to fucking beg for attention like that. You are going to regret you ever--”

And then they are gone.


	17. Snow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Molly take some pictures for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "warm and cozy."

Sometimes, being John Watson means running after criminals and secreting away weapons and welcoming strange and fascinating clients into the sitting room at 221b Baker Street. 

Sometimes, it means trudging through a snow day to take pictures of dead bodies. 

The Tube, despite being, rather famously, _underground_ , is mostly shut down by the weather, so John laces up his shoes and starts walking the three kilometres to the hospital. The scene on the streets of London is something that John would only avoid characterizing as a “war zone” because he’s been in _actual_ war zones; the weather reporters, who for the most part have no such sense of perspective, are not hesitating to do so. He walks past several auto accidents where drivers lost control on the slick road and smashed into each other, and puts to rest the idea of hopping in a cab. The snow has soaked through the holes where the laces enter his shoes before he even turns off of Baker Street, but he just grits his teeth and strides on. 

Sherlock needs some pictures, and it can’t wait.

Sherlock himself-- damn him-- is back at home, warm and cozy, analyzing pictures of the slush outside of the victim’s house sent by Lestrade. Now he needs to see the pattern of bruising on the victim’s body. So Molly is waiting in the morgue, and John is freezing his balls off to go get to her because Sherlock insists that taking pictures of this particular dead body to his exact specifications is a two-person job. Meanwhile, Sherlock himself is waiting at home like the spoiled princess he is.

(John can admit to himself, if nobody else, that even if Sherlock _had_ tried to make the trip himself-- in his purely-decorative coat and posh-but-freezing shoes-- John would have forbidden it, and sat the detective down on the couch with a mug of tea and a puzzle to solve. Sherlock isn’t delicate, he _isn’t_ , but some things you just need a Watson to take care of.)

When John finally arrives at St. Bart’s and pokes his head through the door of the morgue, Molly takes one look at him and bustles off to get him a towel, and some tea, and some plastic surgical shoe covers to put inside of his shoes in the hopes of preserving the few dry spots on his socks for the journey home. John shivers gratefully, and spends a good ten minutes trying to warm himself up and dry himself off before they even get to the body. 

The victim is a fourty-three year old male who has so many bruises that it would be more efficient to describe the parts of him that aren’t various shades of purple than those that are. Molly calls Sherlock on the land line in the morgue, so John can focus on taking the photos exactly as instructed. It takes almost three-quarters of an hour, but finally Sherlock is satisfied that he has a complete catalogue of the victim’s injuries, and Molly hangs up the phone. 

John grins and pockets his mobile. “What an exacting prick,” he comments. “Now I get to walk back through all that just to be told, actually, the thirty-third photo is slightly blurry in the bottom left corner."

Molly is looking at him with her lips slightly parted, twisting her hands in front of her chest. He smiles at her, puzzled. 

“You’re so nice to him,” she blurts out suddenly. She looks completely earnest, like this is a piece of information that is novel, and requires explanation. 

John purses his lips, trying to figure out what kind of answer she’s expecting. “So are you,” he points out. “And… I did marry him. That usually indicates a certain willingness to, you know. Be nice. In the face of… oddities.”

Molly nods, and frowns a little. John looks her up and down, pretending for a moment that he’s Sherlock, and he can see what’s troubling her written on her face and clothes plain as day. The necklace her last boyfriend bought for her is missing, and she’s been at work for long enough for four coffee cups of the swill from the hospital cafeteria to have piled up on her desk. She was thrilled when John arrived, and cheerful while absorbed in the work of taking the photos, but now that it’s over, she looks pale and tired. 

Molly, John realizes, is lonely. 

“Come over for dinner,” he says. “Sherlock needs feeding up, and he won’t do it if it’s just me insisting. Having you there will help. And I could use the company on the walk, if you’re up for it.”

Molly shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says quietly. 

John watches her precise, severe face twist in regret, and he realizes that they’ve fucked this one up. John had known, abstractly, that Molly had a crush on Sherlock, and although the whole Eurus incident had been explained to her, things had never really been resolved emotionally between them after… that. But John had managed to forget about it, because he had the luxury of forgetting. Molly didn’t.

“Molly,” John says, “Sherlock would like to see you.” He feels absolutely certain that this is true. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t think he does. I kind of made a fool of myself with him, you know.”

John considers. It’s both true and not. And the ways in which it is true don’t matter, any more. He takes a deep breath. “Everyone has crushes,” he says. “Christ, Molly, I’m married to the most fit, fascinating, utterly desirable bloke on the planet-- as you’re well aware-- but that doesn’t mean that I stop noticing that other people are interesting. Though we could probably update the terminology somewhat, for lack of a better word, _crushes_ are part of being an adult. You just deal with it, and accept that some thoughts stay inside your head, and move on. It doesn’t mean you can’t be friends with someone. And Sherlock really needs you as a friend.” 

Molly smiles, a wavering, hesitant one, and says, “I… wow. I never thought of it like that. You don’t… mind? Knowing?”

John knows he should probably keep his mouth shut on this count, but hell, Molly knows the both of them well enough not to bother. “Oh hell no,” he says. “Knowing someone else wants your partner is its own kind of thrill. And rest assured Sherlock will be appropriately punished for attracting attention.” He grins lecherously. 

Molly blushes red as a beet, and goes to get another pair of shoe covers. 

John pulls out his phone, and texts Sherlock: _Put on trousers. We’ve company for dinner._


	18. Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets roped into a performance of the Messiah. John reacts pretty to this pretty much the same as he reacts to everything else Sherlock Holmes does: lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "celebration."
> 
> I most sincerely apologize to Handel, Jesus, and everyone who has ever played the Messiah, including myself.
> 
> Oh, and the real lyrics are ["Thus saith the lord, the lord of hosts"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtV66X3S_2Q); ["his yoke is easy and his burden is light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Va2tVRUNXCk); and ["for we like sheep have gone astray."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7O7JEDK7yY)

The woman draped dramatically over the altar died of natural causes. Lestrade raises an eyebrow at that, but Sherlock’s circumstantial evidence combined with John’s preliminary examination are convincing: she woke up in the middle of the night feeling poorly, and instead of going to A&E, she used the key to the church she had been given to set up for Thursday evening orchestra rehearsals to let herself in, stumble to the front of the sanctuary, and pray for health. 

“Trust in God, but lock your car, and go to the bloody hospital when you’re having a heart attack,” John mutters, low enough that only Sherlock can hear him, as they’re both crouching over the body. He pushes to his feet and says at a normal volume, “She probably didn’t know she was having a heart attack. The symptoms that women experience aren’t the same as your stereotypical middle-aged male clutching his chest and pitching onto the floor. It’ll have to be confirmed in autopsy, but I’m almost certain about this. How’s the pastor doing?”

The church’s pastor had been the one to find her, and the poor man was practically hysterical with shock and grief. One of Greg Lestrade’s many excellent qualities is a firm, reassuring and practiced manner with the families and friends of crime victims, so John was happy to leave the poor man in the D.I’s care as he and Sherlock took a look at the scene. Now, though, Greg suddenly looks nervous. 

“He’s…” he stammers. “Y’know how blokes often get, well, overly practical in the face of tragedy? The ones who start calling funeral parlors before the blood is dry on the floor, and all that?”

John nods. “It’s certainly one way of avoiding the impact of the tragedy, for a little, while,” he acknowledges. 

“This one is distraught over, uh. Well. This lady apparently was in the orchestra for the church’s production of the Messiah this Christmas. Principal second violin, he said. He’s very upset over, um, needing to find another violinist.”

It seems an innocuous statement, and John just nods, but Sherlock’s head snaps up, taking in Greg’s stammering. “ _What did you do,_ ” he snarls. 

Greg holds up his palms, placating, and says, “now, look, I didn’t… _commit_ you…”

At that moment, the pastor himself bursts into the sanctuary. He’s clearly just gotten off of his mobile, and older model which is hanging from his fingers entirely forgotten. His eyes are focussed on Sherlock. 

“You’re the detective? The brilliant violinist?” he pants. “Greg here told me-- please-- Ally was our principal second for the Messiah, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Please play with us.” His eyes are full of tears, and he looks like he’s actually going to keel over as he channels all of the shock and grief of coming into his church to find a dead body into the single-minded task of finding a violinist. “Please, come celebrate the birth of our Savior with us. There will be a reception afterwards, too!”

If looks could kill, Greg Lestrade would be the second dead body on the floor of the church by now. “I don’t play second fiddle,” Sherlock says shortly, still glaring at Greg instead of the pastor. “Or in a _section_ at all, come to think of it. I play in the sitting room at Baker Street, and I play for John Watson. That’s it.”

The pastor begins weeping in earnest, and John feels a stab of pity. Making Sherlock play the Messiah won’t fix the poor man’s real trauma, of course, but it’s better than the alternative. 

He leans in close to Sherlock, yanking on his sleeve a little to force him to bend over slightly, and mutters, “oh, but you know how much I like seeing you on stage. You _will_ be playing for me. And afterwards, I’ll have to wash the dirty gaze of all those other people off of you, and make you mine again.” 

Sherlock blinks. A moment passes. 

“I’m not going to any sort of reception,” he states. 

“”Course you aren’t,” John states, not bothering to lower his voice this time. “You’ll be otherwise occupied, I assure you.”

Sherlock smirks, Greg rolls his eyes, and the pastor sniffles as he lurches forward to shake Sherlock’s hand. 

***

The church is an absolute zoo at the conclusion of the performance, but John doesn’t mind. He makes his way slowly though the cheerful mob of people, watching Sherlock in a corner, carefully loosening his bow and scraping the rosin off his strings with, John has cause to know, a screeching noise that can wake a roommate very effectively when produced in the middle of the night. 

They eschew the reception, as promised, and make their way out into the night, walking towards home. “Well?” says Sherlock. “Were you bored out of your mind by everything except me?”

John chuckles. He had actually quite enjoyed most of it-- a bit on the long side, but many of the tunes he had vague memories of having head before, and they were catchy. “Well, the kids beside me were obviously dragged by their parents,” he said, “And they had some quite good note-passing going on in the program. I think it was when the bloke sang ‘Thus spoke the Lord of Toast’ that they started doing illustrations, too.”

Sherlock’s burst of laughter is entirely unexpected, and rings out in the night cheerfully. “John, you know it’s--”

“I don’t want to know what the real lyrics are,” John cuts him off. “They also had a rather good drawing of ‘his yolk is easy and his bread is light.’ Also ‘we really like sheep,’ though that one got a little creepy.” Sherlock is descending into helpless giggles now, and John takes advantage of his moment of weakness to slide his arm under the backpack straps of the violin case on Sherlock’s back and with one hand and ease the straps off his back with the other. “Let me hold this,” he says. “Your back must be sore, after all that.”

Sherlock lets him, and eventually gets control of his laughter. John sobers for a moment, too. “Was it so horrible, playing second fiddle, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Well,” he says, “I _was_ the leader of my section. So… I guess it wasn’t too bad.” 

“Mmm,” says John. “I know how much you like bossing people around.” Sherlock throws him a dirty look, and while he’s distracted they happen to be passing by an alleyway, and that’s the moment John chooses to act. He grasps Sherlock’s shoulders and yanks him into the darkness, pushing his back up against the brick wall. The violin, which he had removed from Sherlock’s person for just this person, he places gently on the ground beside them, then returns his attentions to Sherlock. 

“Did you forget about the other part of my promise?” he growls. 

Sherlock is standing back against the wall, his hair a wild halo where it’s pressed against the brick, the dim light from the street they’ve just exited barely strong enough to make out the sudden flush of his cheeks. He glances once at the violin, determines it safe, and returns his attention to John, who is advancing on him menacingly.

“I didn’t forget,” he whispers, as John brings his hands up to brace on the wall on either side of Sherlock’s face. He grins and the detective’s aroused-apprehensive-awed look. He _loves_ when Sherlock gets like this. 

“What did I say, then?” John prompts, and pushes Sherlock’s forehead back with one finger, exposing miles of pale, thin neck to suck and nip on. 

Sherlock gasps. “You... that.. you would have to-- _aah, John!_ \-- wash the filthy gaze of everyone else at that concert off of me... “

John chuckles. It’s a good thing there seems to be a direct link from Sherlock’s throat to his cock, because John could spend all night devouring it. Maybe one day he will. See if Sherlock could get off from that alone. It would be an interesting experiment. 

Not for tonight. He sees the shadow of a person pass by the entrance to the alleyway, and thinks he might even see them glance down the alley and then quickly avert their gaze. His heart picks up, and he yanks Sherlock’s trousers open none too gently. 

“That’s right,” he says, thrusting his hand into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and shoving them down his hips a little until he can grasp the hard length of his cock. “You’re _mine_ , and you play for _me_. Not for all those other idiots. Me alone.” 

Sherlock is thrusting into John’s hand, laid utterly low already. “Yes,” he pants. “Yours. I’m sorry, John, I didn’t want them looking at me, I didn’t… I’m all for you…”

John can’t help it; he’s thinking about the concert now, how utterly gorgeous Sherlock looked in his tux, swaying with the music as he led each entrance of his section. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs, his voice gentler, “So beautiful, so goddamn sexy, I don’t know how anyone in that concert could have been thinking about Jesus with you in the room to fantasize about.” Sherlock’s thrusting speeds up, and John can feel his abdominal muscles tensing, and he whispers, “Come for me, come all over my hand. You’re mine. Come on.” 

Sherlock does, nearly folding in half at the waist at the force of it, letting out little choked-off moaning sounds as he rides through the pleasure trying not to call too much attention to them in the alley. When it’s over, he straightens up, shaking. 

John wipes his hand on a handkerchief, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock the entire time. His erection strains against his black dress trousers, and Sherlock’s eyes flick downwards. 

“You’ll have to wait before you get to have my cock,” says John, archly, and Sherlock’s eyes darken in lust again. 

John picks up the violin case again, and they head home.


	19. The Cacophonous Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is alone in the flat, and it's silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "silent night."

John flicks the light off and eases himself onto his side of the bed, feeling unaccountably nervous. 

It’s ridiculous. The bed doesn’t expect anything from him. The bed doesn’t care who’s in it. And half the time, even when Sherlock is here, John is alone in the bed anyway; Sherlock is up over some experiment, or playing the violin, or reading, or making crashing noises that John refuses to investigate for his own sanity. Or just thinking. 

Now, though, Sherlock is in Liverpool, attending to an extremely lucrative and extremely insignificant case involving the love life of a financial tycoon. John had offered to book out of the clinic to come with, but it was such late notice, and so utterly inane, and so _very_ attractive a financial offer, that Sherlock had reluctantly agreed it made the most sense for him to go alone. He could clear it up in two days and be back home with a handsome cheque, which they plan on spending on a very nice dinner and a vibrating cock ring. 

John had been proud of Sherlock, actually, for offering to go alone. Over the years, Sherlock has slowly but surely become more practical about his work. He still prioritizes the _good_ cases over all else, of course, but he’s willing to grit his teeth and do boring work if it pays well, or if it’s worthwhile. There are some clients who will never receive the benefit of Sherlock and John’s services-- they receive a surprising number of requests to consult for essentially legal fraud schemes, for handsome compensation, which they ignore. But so long as the motive is harmless, Sherlock is newly willing to burn holes through the pocketbooks of the rich. The profits allow them to work for free when a worthy client requires it. 

So the flat is entirely silent at the moment, and John is in bed. His body is only occupying his habitual space, leaving room for Sherlock to slip in at whatever odd hour of the night or morning he ends up crashing, if he does. He looks at the empty mattress real estate, and considers spreading out into it. Hesitantly, he tries extending a leg and an arm into the cool expanse of the sheets. 

It feels exposed and uncomfortable, so he pulls them back towards his body and flips over, closing his eyes.

Eventually, the coolness of the untouched sheets is destroyed by John’s body heat, and he starts to turn over, punching down the pillow and trying to find a comfortable position. John doesn’t usually have trouble falling asleep. _Staying_ asleep, sure, and plenty of the visions that his subconscious offers up once he is asleep make him wish he weren’t. But somehow he manages to return to bed each night hopeful that fewer horrors will await him than the night before. And it helps that for the past few years, he’s mostly been right. 

Apparently, though, an insufferable consulting detective banging about the sitting room was the essential secret sauce to John Watson’s repose, and he didn’t even know it. 

His mobile is plugged in on the other side of the room, and he forces himself to avoid it for as long as possible, but he finally drags himself from the bed to check the time. He’s only been there for an hour, which is objectively not all that long, but it feels like an eternity. 

His finger hovers over the switch to turn the screen off. 

There’s no reason to call Sherlock. He’ll be working, surely, probably pacing around a bland hotel room lost in thought. He might not even hear the phone ring. 

And besides… John doesn’t want to be _needy._

He blinks. Where had that thought come from? He hadn’t been consciously aware of being self-conscious about that before this moment, and now that it has definitely crossed his mind, the folly of it is obvious. If Sherlock Holmes is one thing in the world, he is _definitely_ needy. And John loves that about him. He loves taking care of Sherlock, and knowing that Sherlock feels comfortable asking for (okay, demanding) (okay, frequently demanding at high volume and with minimal application of basic manners) what he needs. 

That John should withhold that kind of intimacy from Sherlock, then, is… not good. He’s done enough therapy in his life to recognize that much. 

He flops backwards onto the bed, listening to the ringing of the outgoing call. 

When Sherlock picks up, John is surprised enough that he was paying attention to his phone in the first place that he’s momentarily at a loss for words to explain why he’s calling. 

Luckily, he’s calling Sherlock Holmes, so he doesn’t have to.

“Evening, love,” comes Sherlock’s deep voice, and John smiles. Sherlock never calls him “love” unless it’s in conscious imitation of John himself. 

“Hi,” says John, and then there’s a pause. “How was your day?” he asks. 

Sherlock obliges John’s unspoken desire for small talk, filling him in on the case-- the specifics of which centre around the necessity of producing incontrovertible proof that Sherlock’s current employer was _not_ cheating on his girlfriend. Which he wasn’t, but that is easier claimed than proven. John listens, chucking at the more ridiculous of the man’s personal foibles, and feels the tension start to bleed out of him at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He reciprocates, narrating his day at the clinic to Sherlock, and is grateful that Sherlock seems to actually be paying attention to his no doubt horrifically dull patients. 

Just as the conversation is winding down, and John is wondering whether he should mention why he’s actually calling or simply let it lie, Sherlock says casually, “Check your email.” 

John pulls himself off the bed and goes out to the sitting room, opening his laptop. There an email from Sherlock with a .zip file, which John downloads while he listens to Sherlock describe his train journey that morning. The file unarchives into a folder of audio files, which automatically open in his music player. 

There are around two dozen tracks, all bearing simply dates as names, and the dates themselves range from last week to almost a decade ago-- the same format as the voice memos that John sometimes uses to record and transcribe conversations for cases. 

“I put together some practice recordings while we’ve been chatting,” says Sherlock gently, somehow sensing without seeing him that John is looking at them. “I should have thought of it before I left, I’m sorry. That was careless. Of course you’re accustomed to noise in the flat at night; you live with _me._ ” John can hear his rueful grin even over the phone. 

John feels warmth spread through his chest. He’s seen Sherlock recording himself on the occasions that he plays actual pieces, mostly so he can listen back and curse at his own perceived inadequacies. But he always sounds flawless to John, and now he has his very own playlist of Sherlock’s violin playing. He plugs the laptop into the speaker in the sitting room, and breathes, “Thank you,” into the phone. 

When he returns to the bedroom, it’s with the sound of Sherlock’s violin playing softly in the sitting room. It’s not the same as having the man himself there, of course; but at least for one night, it’s simply different, not worse. The knowledge that Sherlock is not just playing, but playing at least virtually _for him_ , wraps around him alongside the blankets, and he falls asleep at last, bathed in the sounds of the night.


	20. Sherlock's Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John visit the Holmes home for Christmas, and get up to some things in Sherlock's childhood bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "home."

“This,” says John, “is _adorable._ ”

Sherlock pushes himself up on the pillow, and cranes his neck to see what John’s picked up. The bedroom is lit only by a bedside lamp, and John is squinting at a small stuffed mouse in the dim, yellow light. 

Sherlock stiffens. “Yes,” he says. 

John lies back. He’s on the left-hand side of the bed, like he is back home in Baker Street, where some small part of him still insists on being between Sherlock and the door. Admittedly, if they were going to be attacked in the night, the threat would be just as likely to choose the window as a method of entry. Still. 

Here, in Sherlock’s childhood bedroom, the left side of the bed is farther away from the door. But it’s also beside a small bedside table with a few of Sherlock’s old things on it, and now John has picked up one of them and is resting it on his bare chest. 

“That’s Timothy,” says Sherlock. He regards John with the stuffed toy warily.

John turns his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Will he mind if I pet him?”

Sherlock considers this for a moment. Timothy, objectively, will not mind, since he is inanimate. That’s not really what John is asking, though, so the doctor’s eyes are soft and serious as he waits for an answer, for Sherlock to invite him into the long-ago shared space of Sherlock Holmes and Timothy the mouse. 

Sherlock lies back. “No, he won’t mind,” he says, and John lifts three fingers and starts stroking them gently down the mouse’s back, from behind his ears to the base of his tail. He takes as much care with the task as he does when it’s Sherlock, and not an ancient stuffed toy with matted fur, under his fingers. 

Sherlock begins to smile a little, and after a while he wiggles forward, pressing his chest against John’s side in an obvious bid for the same treatment. John lifts his other hand and starts stroking down Sherlock’s back to the same rhythm that he is using for Timothy. 

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. Christmas holiday at the Holmes family hasn’t been _awful_. It hasn’t been easy, either, but having John there to both defend him and regulate his stroppier behavior is a help. 

After quite a long time of feeling John’s hand rub down his back, though, he’s reminded of the one aspect of their lives that has been conspicuously missing from this holiday. He shifts up a little, making John’s hand slip a little lower than intended. 

He can feel John stiffen in confusion, then a breathy chuckle as he understands. Sherlock shivers a little in anticipation, and sure enough, this time John lets his hand dip even lower, ghosting a finger beneath Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and between his arse cheeks.

He watches as John’s other hand guides Timothy over to the far side of his chest, right in front of Sherlock’s face. “I think,” John whispers, “Sweet Timothy here should be spared the sight of what happens next.” Sherlock grins, and John brings the mouse’s nose into gentle contact with Sherlock’s for a kiss. Then he replaces him on the table where he found him. 

John pulls on Sherlock’s shoulder so he’s lying face-down, his head on a pillow and arms underneath his ear. The both of them eschewed shirts-- Mummy likes the heat up strong in the winter, and the bedroom is just this side of too warm-- but John pulls Sherlock’s pyjama pants off gently, and Sherlock can hear John’s own joining them. 

Sherlock feels warm and anticipatory and just a little nervous. It occurs to him that he’s gotten away with a great many things from this bedroom, with his parents just two doors down and-- horrifyingly-- _Mycroft_ right on the other side of the wall, but sex actually isn’t one of them yet.

John seems to be thinking along the same lines. He climbs up Sherlock’s body with his knees on either side of his torso until he can lean down to stretch himself out on top of Sherlock’s back, luxuriating in the slide of skin on skin as he leans down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “So, what-- you want to be deflowered in the same bed you first discovered yourself in?”

Sherlock has to muffle his gasp as his cock twitches into the mattress. He hadn’t actually gotten so far as to come up with a specific plan, but now that John’s weight is bearing down on him and John’s cock sliding in between his cheeks-- yes. Yes, that is exactly what he wants. 

By way of confirmation, he simply whispers back, “Oh, but I’ve never done this before. Will it hurt very badly?”

He feels John mashing his face into Sherlock’s shoulder to contain his laughter. When he gets a hold of himself, he pulls himself up and to the side of the bed, and starts rummaging around in his travel bag. “You are too fucking much, Sherlock Holmes,” he mutters. “You are… absolutely deadly.” 

Sherlock has to muffle his own giggles in the mattress, now, but he manages to choke out, “Promise you’ll be gentle with me?”

John is back with the lube, and he’s not laughing any longer when he drops a kiss on one of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, then the other, and then starts trailing them down his spine. “I’ll be gentle, I promise,” he husks in between kisses. “You’re precious, lovely, gorgeous. I’ll warm you up with my fingers until you’re begging for it.” He reaches the part of Sherlock’s arse, and pulls his cheeks apart to continue kissing and licking down into the sensitive space in between. “Quietly,” he adds, when Sherlock starts squirming at the feel of John’s tongue flicking over his entrance. “Begging very quietly.” 

Reluctantly, Sherlock nods in agreement. He doesn’t care if his parents know that he and John were having sex, but he knows _John_ would mind. And besides, the thought of Mycroft listening in makes him feel vaguely ill. 

Still, it becomes harder to stay quiet than he anticipated when John starts thrusting in with his tongue, hot and filthy and not quite enough. Sherlock lifts his hips a little so he can grind his cock into the mattress and John lets him, pulling away to coat his fingers in lube. 

When a slick, warm finger finally breaches him, Sherlock sighs. “Oh,” he whispers in mock-surprise. “I never imagined it could feel so good.”

He can hear the amused exhale of breath through John’s nose, and it occurs to him that he never did say that out loud on the _actual_ first occasion that John had fingered him. He had been rather too overwhelmed by the new sensory data to say much of anything. It makes him feel lighter, somehow, to have finally remembered to say it. 

John takes it slow, as promised, first with one finger and then with two gently sliding in and out of him, then rotating as far as John’s wrist will allow in the circular motion that John knows drives Sherlock practically to distraction. By that time, Sherlock is in serious danger of completely losing control and starting to simply fuck the mattress. But he recalls that John specifically requested begging, so he twists around a little and says in a desperate undertone, “Please, John, I think I’m ready now. Please come into me.”

John withdraws his fingers and slicks his cock with the other hand. The low light illuminates the kindness of his face as he says, “Oh, love, thank you. It’s an honour.” That statement is only saved from being completely maudlin by the fact that Sherlock is well aware that John still means it with all his heart, even after all these years. He feels moisture that has nothing to do with pain spring into his eyes as John’s cock pushes into him. 

John is absolutely _maddeningly_ gentle, which is necessary to avoid creaking the bed, but which still causes Sherlock to writhe involuntarily, So John pulls a pillow underneath Sherlock’s thighs, lifting him up a little, and then lowers his body down entirely onto Sherlock’s back, so that the rolling of his hips is the only possible movement. Sherlock hears a tiny whine escape him, and then John’s voice is in his ear whispering “Shh, shh… be quiet for me, love, you’re doing so well…” and while hearing that isn’t exactly helpful in Sherlock’s quest to stay quiet, he manages to bite off the rest of his cries anyway. 

His orgasm seems to take an agonizingly long time to come, building up in tiny increments where he would usually seize his pleasure in great waves. Finally John’s small thrusts become more erratic and forceful and then it is John’s turn to try and fail to avoid making sound, a breathy moan escaping him while warmth blooms inside of Sherlock’s arse. 

With John collapsed on top of him, Sherlock finally allows himself the luxury of a few hard thrusts into the mattress, and comes with his face buried in a pillow, shaking. 

John pulls out of him but not too far away, simply disengaging enough to slide his hand in between their bodies and resume his stroking of Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock hums, enjoying the feeling for a moment more before flipping over to hug John to him tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers, not entirely sure _why_ this feels like such a right thing to say at this moment, only that it does.

John buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair, so he feels John’s words vibrate through his skull as much as he hears them through the air: “Any time. And I do apparently mean _any_ time-- if I’m okay with having sex with your brother in the adjoining bedroom, I can’t see myself turning down most reasonable requests, and quite a few unreasonable ones.”

Sherlock grins. “Good.”


	21. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to his brother, Mycroft fears the worst, but hopes for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "hopes and fears."

When Mycroft Holmes is six years old, he hopes for a friend. 

Mycroft is smart. Very smart. He knows that children like him don’t have friends; at least, not the kind that you make in school by passing a ball to someone in physical education or choosing the desk next to them in maths. No, the only hope for Mycroft is to be able to _build_ himself a friend from the ground up. A brother, then. A brother is what he needs. 

When Sherlock is born, Mycroft is afraid of him. He had perhaps underestimated the amount of work that turning a brand-new human into his friend would take. The tiny body is so delicate that Mummy has to coach him to support Sherlock’s head with his hand every time he holds the tiny, wrinkled thing; Sherlock can’t even support that weight on his own. 

Mycroft sympathizes with the feeling. Eventually Sherlock learns to hold his head up, and learns many other things besides, though never as quickly or accurately as Mycroft would like. Still. If the tiny, confusing being that Mycroft wished into existence can learn to support his own head, Mycroft thinks that perhaps someday he, too, will grow a body adequate to support the contents of his mind. 

***

When Mycroft is twenty-three years old, he hopes for a miracle. 

Sherlock should be in a hospital room, Mycroft knows. Detoxing, while preferable to the alternative of continued drug use, is still dangerous. But the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he begged him not to call an ambulance was so utterly desperate, from so very deep down in the psyche of the one person Mycroft could honestly say that he loves, that he found his hand hesitating in reaching for the telephone. 

And instead he had just scraped the frail body off the alley floor and carried him home, and told Mummy that Sherlock was simply feeling under the weather, and installed a chair beside Sherlock’s bed to observe him from. 

He’s afraid that he’s made the wrong choice. He’s afraid that this is all his fault. He’s afraid that Sherlock will slip through his fingers like water, and he’ll never have the chance to fix this. And he’s afraid that he _will_ have the chance, that’s he’ll eventually have dozens of have a do-overs of this exact moment, and be able to test out every possible response to Sherlock’s self-destruction, only to discover that there _is_ no right choice. 

***

By the time Mycroft is thirty-six, he has learned not to hope. 

But then.

Then, a retired army doctor is staring him down in a car park, with steel in his eyes and a cane in his hand, and Mycroft has to school his features into impassivity with a deliberateness that he hasn’t required in quite some time. He had expected John Watson to be afraid of him. Instead, he is undeniably afraid of this man who has limped confidently into Sherlock’s life and set up to stay. 

And as the car pulls away with a very pissed-off Watson inside, Mycroft allows hope to creep in once again.


	22. Edible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to eat Sherlock. Sherlock wants that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "feast."

The key to a successful social outing— one that doesn’t end with Sherlock saying the wrong thing, being on the receiving end of glares from around the table, and being gently led home by John, rubbing his arm and telling him that it’s okay, really, he isn’t upset— is preparation. 

Disguises can be interesting. Sherlock is good at disguises, and he can enjoy them, in small doses, for a good cause. And anyway, part of the charm of a good disguise is that feeling of relief when you can take it off, and the realization that despite the difficulties involved in being Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock actually does prefer it to the alternative. 

So when John asks him if he’d be willing to go to a dinner with some of his old medical school colleagues, Sherlock thinks about it for a little bit, and then says yes. John is nervous about this too; most of these people he hasn’t seen for years. Everyone present will be in disguise, to some extent: so John will go as Very Functional Normal Successful Doctor, and Sherlock will go as Perfect Loving Normal Husband, and when the disguises start to slip they’ll leave and go home and fuck each other’s brains out as just regular, utterly mad John and Sherlock. There are worse ways to spend a weekend evening with no case.

Sherlock is standing at the bathroom vanity, having just showered and preparing to shave, when John comes in and drops a kiss on the underside of his jaw. “You look edible, love,” he murmurs, and pats his arse casually, and turns to go. 

Sherlock’s mind, which had at a surface level been preparing several discussion topics that made his work seem both appealingly normal but also appropriately prestigious, shatters into white noise like a television losing a signal. 

He blinks stupidly at John’s retreating back, and just manages to sputter “Could you repeat that for me, John?” before John is out of earshot. 

John turns around, raises his eyebrows. Sherlock _hates_ when other people repeat themselves. He crosses his arms, looking vaguely concerned. 

“You look edible,” he says again, “gorgeous. I can’t wait to show you off. Or, sorry, is that… not good?”

Sherlock realizes that he has a look on his face like he’s been hit by lightning, and can’t quite figure out how to wipe it off, but he needs to do _something_. Instead, his feet lead him over to John, and he lifts up his hand, and places two fingers at the place where John’s lips part. 

John lets him push them in. The inside of John’s mouth is so warm and slick and dangerous, and Sherlock can’t stop staring at the place where his own digits cease to fully belong to him, and disappear inside of John. 

Then a flare of pain, as John gently bites the base segment of his second finger. Sherlock gasps, but doesn’t have time to react at all before John pulls himself off of Sherlock’s fingers with a wet popping sound. 

“Okay, enough, you,” he says, holding Sherlock’s hand by the wrist to kiss the spot he just bit, then lowering it back down to Sherlock’s side. “We need to leave in fourty minutes, and that’s not enough time to treat you like you deserve. So. Hold that thought. And wear the purple shirt, if you don’t mind.” 

John winks, and leaves to go get dressed himself, and Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe.

***

By the time they’ve reached the restaurant, Sherlock has figured out a counter-strike. 

He sits on the opposite side of the table from John, not directly across from him but just one seat over, next to an oncologist with three cats and across from a GP cheating on her husband. He sets a portion of the Mind Palace on autopilot, carrying out the actions that suit his disguise: smiling, using stock greetings, making attentive faces while people explain their boring jobs to him, using his own stock phrases about himself. 

The rest of his mind is free to concentrate fully on John. The first thing he does is order a steak. 

He sees John’s slight look of pleased surprise when all the food arrives at the table, and the waiter places the steak in front of Sherlock. John forces him to take an iron supplement, now, but he’s still pleased when he sees Sherlock voluntarily eating meals, and steak is far enough outside of Sherlock’s usual choices that he knew it would catch John’s attention. 

The table has lapsed into a comfortable silence as everyone tries their food. Sherlock cuts of a large chunk, larger than he can eat in one bite, and catches John’s eye. 

He raises the fork to his mouth, and catches the edge of the hunk of steak between his teeth, stretching his lips so as not to touch the meat with anything but his teeth. 

John licks his lips. 

Sherlock tugs with the fork and the muscles of hs neck to tear slowly along the grain of the meat. For a moment he’s simply suspended there, a piece of meat hanging ferally from his bared teeth, and John’s eyes go wide. Then Sherlock casts his lashes down and slips the morsel in between his lips, chewing demurely as if nothing happened. 

He resumes his conversation about inadequate laboratory funding with the oncologist, resolutely ignoring John for the remainder of the evening. 

***

As they climb the stairs to Baker Street, Sherlock is aglow with pride. For the first time in the history of their attending social events together, _John_ had been the one to insist that they needed to go home. 

John is aglow with something else entirely, and the awareness of it sparks in Sherlock’s chest and pulls hear to his face as they step into the flat. 

John locks the door deliberately and pulls of his coat. Sherlock hangs his own coat up, turning to present himself to John’s gaze. 

And oh, John’s gaze. John is pinning him like with his gaze like one of Sherlock’s own specimens, and Sherlock can see the cogs turning in his head as he decides what to do with Sherlock.

Finally, he steps forward and places a hand under Sherlock’s jaw. He pushes his head to the left and then the right, casting a critical eye over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s breathing picks up and he allows himself to be manhandled, going without objection when John’s hands land on his shoulders and turn him in a slow circle.

“Still skinny,” says John. “Not as much meat on you as there could be. Still, it’s part of your charm. Take off your clothes and arrange yourself on the bed. I want to take a look at the rest of you.”

 _Oh my god._ Sherlock feels as if he could faint. John is the single most brilliant, twisted person on the planet. He turns and goes into the bedroom so quickly he can hear John’s soft chuckle at his eagerness follow behind him. 

When John enters the room, Sherlock is lying spread-eagled on top of the coverlet, hard, and nearly panting with anticipation and nervousness. 

For a moment he can barely process what he’s seeing. John is--

John has--

John. John is carrying a kitchen knife in his left hand. 

Sherlock might forget how to breathe soon. John holds it up, raising his eyebrows, and Sherlock just boggles. 

John places the knife on the bedside table and stands beside the bed, looming over Sherlock’s exposed body. “I need a yes or no to the knife, love.” 

Sherlock nods frantically, desperately hoping that John isn’t going to make him formulate words in this condition, and is relieved when the smile-lines around John’s eyes stand out in sharp relief again and he picks up the knife, sliding it into the waistband of his trousers. He doesn’t climb onto the bed, and Sherlock wriggles, desperate for the feel of John’s hands. 

John raises his chin slightly. His eyes sweep up and down Sherlock’s body. “Delicious,” he says. “You’re a proper feast, my love. Let me see the back.”

Sherlock flops over onto his belly, vibrating. 

Finally, John touches him: a firm, impersonal hand running up the back of his thigh from knee to arse. John gives a little pinch of the firm flesh. “Mmm,” he murmurs. “Yes. Lovely.” There’s a depression in the mattress between Sherlock’s knees, and John is insinuating himself into Sherlock’s space, pushing his legs further apart and kneeling in the centre of them. His arse is exposed to John’s gaze this way. John has a knife in his trousers. Sherlock presses his hips into the mattress, moaning. 

John stays with his thighs, though, now grabbing at both of them with his hands, pushing and squeezing at the muscle there. “Fabulous. Yes. There’s more to you than meets the eye, you know that? There’s some meat in here. All that running over rooftops.” His hands trail up, just ghosting over Sherlock’s arse before arriving at his back. They press on the muscles there in a butterfly pattern, and Sherlock groans as the muscle tension of the evening out relaxes. 

Then, the hands disappear, and he feels a sharp prick against the top of his spine. 

He hardly dares breathe. John is just resting the knife there, letting him feel it, waiting. It’s nearly unbearable.

After what feel like ten years but is probably only about ten seconds, Sherlock can’t help it. He whimpers, a tiny, desperate sound. And _finally_ , John moves; tracing the knife down and out, demonstrating a pattern on Sherlock’s back that outlines the muscles just to the side of his spine. 

“Oysters,” he says. “On a chicken, it’s the chef’s reward for cooking. Tender and delicious.” The knife scrapes in the same circular pattern over and over. Sherlock wonders if he’s bleeding. He doubts it; John probably wouldn’t like that. Still he can hope. 

Abruptly, John pushes him over, climbing on top of him to hold him down, as if that were necessary. John’s face is flushed pink and his eyes are wide. He drops the knife onto the mattress beside them, far enough away that Sherlock isn’t going to accidentally roll onto it. “Give me your tongue,” he demands. 

Sherlock doesn’t think about it. He opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out obligingly. John dives down, his mouth crashing into Sherlock’s. It isn’t a nice kiss; this actually kissing portion is perfunctory, just a few seconds to get their bearings before John’s lips fasten around his tongue and _suck._

“Aaallhh!” Sherlock cries out at the strange sensation of pressure at the root of his tongue, and the sound he makes is simultaneously ridiculous and desperate. John doesn’t let up. It’s one of the strangest sensations Sherlock has ever felt, and it goes straight to his cock. He arches up, trying to find some relief, and John obliges by grinding down on him. 

Finally, John lets him breathe, releasing his tongue and panting into his mouth. “Twice the fat content of any other muscle in the body,” he says. “God. Your tongue. Your tongue is amazing. You are amazing. God, if I could eat you whole.”

Sherlock bucks. He buries his face in John’s neck to say, “God, please, _John_ , get _on_ with it,” and John finally grins and slithers down his body to take Sherlock in his mouth.

***

“So,” says John. He’s lying on his side, arms curled tight around Sherlock’s front, nose pressed into Sherlock’s hair. “If you _ever_... christ, _eat at me_ like that again, Sherlock Holmes, I swear to god I will…” he trails off. He clearly hadn’t actually thought that sentence through to its conclusion. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbles, pressing the thin red knife-lines on his back into John’s belly just to feel the sting again. “You do that.”


	23. Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to a fancy event. They find ways to make it interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "nightmare before Christmas."

“This,” says John, “is going to be a nightmare.”

“Undoubtedly,” says Sherlock. He’s rummaging through an absurd number of mother-of-pearl cufflinks. They look identical to John. “But I haven’t been allowed to miss the Christmas party with Mummy’s extended family since-- well.” _Since I was dead._ “And you agreed to this kind of thing when you married me. I think. So.”

John grimaces into the mirror as he fixes his collar. “Well. The only reason I even own white-tie dress is because I was an officer. A few more rungs down the ladder, and your goddamn family Christmas party would be the most formal event I’ve ever attended. You know how I always say you’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met? I might actually have to take it back. Your family might actually give you a run for your money.”

John holds out his hand, and allows Sherlock to start affixing the cufflinks that he’s chosen for him. They’re gorgeous, nicer than anything John himself owns or would ever want to. Despite his nervousness for this ludicrous party, he can still enjoy the sight of Sherlock’s gorgeous long fingers working over his wrists. 

He glances up. Sherlock is impassive, already constructing the armour he’ll require to interact with his family and the small army of their friends, who are apparently the kind of people who are so posh that throwing a ball is their party of choice. 

Then, Sherlock’s face softens, and he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out two smart watches, their large glossy faces glowing slightly when they detect the movement. 

“These are from Mycroft,” Sherlock says. 

John frowns. “Why on Earth would Mycroft think we would want… those things?” John is decent at technology, he _is_ , he’s a professional blogger for chrissakes, but he has no interest in gadgets for their own sake. And definitely not in gadgets gifted by _Mycroft._

Sherlock actually looks a little uncertain. “I expressed as much,” he admits. “But he said perhaps they could have their uses. These are top-of-the-line, high-class devices. Everyone will be wearing one, just to show that they own it. So we won’t stand out if we’re looking at them. And, he suggested that we might want to… communicate with each other discreetly during this thing.”

John glances up, and Sherlock’s face is hopeful. _Oh._ Well, okay then. It’s irritating that the suggestion came from Mycroft, and entirely possible that Mycroft has bugged them somehow, and John wll have to make sure to keep the face of the thing hidden under his cuff while he’s talking to people, just in case-- but he really, _really_ doesn’t want to go through this party without a constant stream of Sherlock-snark, now that he knows it’s an option.

He holds out his wrist. 

***

7:15 PM Text from: SH  
_Test_

7:16 PM Text from: JW  
 _Woooooooow yuu chn type the leters with yoor finger!_

7:16 PM Text from: SH  
_Elegant._

7:18 PM Text from: JW  
_Shot op, my flngers are fatte than yrs_

7:19 PM Text from: SH  
_Your fingers are the perfect size. I’ll show you where later._

The hotel ballroom seems to be done up entirely in white satin, from curtains to tablecloths to chair covers with fucking _bows_ on them. And then there’s the people: white gloves, walking sticks, fucking _top hats._ John has never seen someone unironically wear a top hat before. He has a sudden, hilarious image of Sherlock strolling into here in his ridiculous deerstalker, just to see what would happen. 

He’s introduced to a dizzying array of people before he has the misfortune to be introduced as _Doctor_ Watson to a woman who is just joining the board of King’s College Hospital, is apparently very excited about the boost to her social status this will bring, and wants to take the opportunity to chat up as many doctors as humanly possible. Sherlock, meanwhile, is practically kidnapped to provide some sort of deduction-based career advice to a florid-faced man’s teenage daughter. From that point forward, the two of them are essentially passed around from conversation to conversation, the two genuinely odd and interesting people in the room and thus in high demand conversationally. 

***

7:41 PM Text from: JW  
_my god u poor posn wahker u have done this euery year of ur life!?_

7:45 PM Text from: SH  
_Your watch typing skills are horrific. And yes. Pity me._

7:48 PM Text from: JW  
_glve me a break I am typing thls onder thh table_

***

8:03 PM Text from: JW  
_Look oot the lady ur talking to wants to get ln ur pants_  
She told me that  
For sume reasoh

8:05 PM Text from: SH  
_Yes, Lady Adderson has been rather forward with me ever since my eighteenth birthday. And I suspect she told you on the assumption that you would sympathize with the sentiment._

8:06 PM Text from: JW  
_well that I do. Want u in the cuat check. Or a bathroon. Or just the halway. Trying to keeo qulet_

8:08 PM Text from: SW  
_It’s astounding how much less arousing statements of that nature are when they’re riddled with typos._

8:10 Text from: JW  
_Sod off_  
There  
That one was perfect

***

8: 41 PM Text from: SH  
_I apologize for unfairly maligning your watch typing skills. This hedge fund manager is the human equivalent of a permanent typo._

8:43 PM Text from: JW  
_Aoologi accepteo. Dar god this one wants to knov vhem i knev i was in lowe with u_

8:45 PM Text from: SH  
_I rescind my “aoologi.” This is intolerable. Tell her it was when I shoved my cock down your throat for the first time._

9:00 PM Text from: JW  
_Okay, okay, I’m locked in the bathroom now so I can actually see the screen of this bloody thing. Happy?_

9:00 PM Text from: SH  
_Just a moment._

9:00 PM Text from: JW  
_Wait, just a moment what?_

9:01 PM Text from: JW  
_Sherlock?_

9:02 PM Text from SH  
_On my way_

9:02 PM Text from: JW  
_That is not what I meant, Jesus Christ_

9:02 PM Text from: SH  
_We need to create a new Christmas tradition. Don’t be difficult about it._

9:02 PM Text from: JW  
_And that tradition is?_

9:02 PM Text from: SH  
_Me ravishing you in a posh hotel bathroom and sending you back out to chat up society ladies with a sore arse_

9:03 PM Text from: JW  
_SHERLCOCK, JESOS_

9:03 PM Text from: SH  
_Typos won’t save you now. Let me in_

***

Sherlock flicks on the light in the sitting room. His eyes are drooping, overwhelmed with the effort of sustained hobnobbing, among other efforts. 

“So?” he asks, shedding his coat and quickly flopping down on the couch, tailcoat and all. “As nightmarish as you thought?”

John simply lies down on top of him, resting his head on Sherlock’s chest and closing his eyes. “Yes,” he mutters. “Only, more like that very specific kind of teenage nightmare where you show up to school and realize you’ve someone else’s spunk leaking out of your arse and down your leg.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Sounds terrifying. Can’t say I ever had that specific kind.”

“Hmm,” says John. “Suppose you just need the source material for it, then.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “There’s always next year.”


	24. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's scars make his body not his own. John helps him reclaim it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "peace."

For the most part, the Met’s mandatory sensitivity training day goes just fine. 

Lestrade had decreed that since Sherlock and John work for the Met nearly as often as anyone who _actually _works there, if he has to suffer through this day, so do they. John is afraid of saccharine sentiment and ridiculous trust exercises and having to constantly be pinching Sherlock under the table to avoid a total meltdown, but it doesn’t come to that. Most of the sessions are led by the victim of a particular crime in tandem with a facilitator; the volunteer victim telling the story of the crime and its aftermath, and the facilitator supporting them, focusing the questions from the officers, and then conducting some roleplay training exercises in interacting with victims of that crime type after the volunteer has left. John actually finds these quite interesting. During their cases with the Met, John is never called upon to speak to or comfort victims; but for his and Sherlock’s private cases, he’s often the primary liaison with the client, and he appreciates that there are actual techniques he can use to help someone tell their story with a maximum of accuracy and a minimum of additional distress.__

__Sherlock is well-behaved. He takes notes as the victims speak, clearly focusing more on trying to solve the case based on the facts they present than on the emotional aspect that the training is supposed to be about, but that’s okay. And he’s quite a fine actor, so makes a very convincing partner for John in the roleplay scenarios._ _

__There’s only one moment of the training that appears to give him trouble. They’re listening to a volunteer speaker, a young woman who was the victim of a violent mugging and was left partially blind and with persistent back and neck pain as a result. She says, as she’s wrapping up the story of her hospital stay, the psychiatric care necessary, and the long-term effects, “it took me a long time to make peace with my new body,” and Sherlock’s head snaps up._ _

__“What on Earth is that supposed to mean?” he says. Luckily, the woman is still talking and Sherlock’s voice had been mercifully quiet, so only the officers seated near them hear the question. They just throw Sherlock a dirty look, probably surprised that it had taken so long for him to start making snide comments._ _

__John places a hand on his leg in warning but Sherlock shakes his head minutely, indicating that he isn’t planning on saying anything further. John glances over. Sherlock’s brow is furrowed, he’s staring at the woman at the front of the room, and he looks genuinely confused by what she’s just said._ _

__Sherlock settles, and John tries to put it out of his mind and concentrate on absorbing the material for the day. That evening, though, the look of confusion on Sherlock’s face slips back into his mind._ _

__They’re in their usual evening positions, John in his chair and Sherlock on his couch, and John decides to be direct. If Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t have to, but John might as well give him the option._ _

__He clears his throat. “So… today, it seemed like you had a pretty strong reaction to that woman talking about making peace with her body,” he says calmly. “Do you want to discuss it?”_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes open, staring at the ceiling over the tops of his fingers. He’s quiet, and John is starting to think that he doesn’t, when Sherlock shrugs a little and says, “That statement doesn’t make any sense.”_ _

__John sits back, trying to think through what part Sherlock might be confused by. It’s difficult, because the statement is so straightforward that there _are_ no alternative angles to approach it from: she was attacked, her body was altered against her will, she needed to come to terms with that._ _

__Oh. Now that he lays it out like that, the point of failure for Sherlock is fairly obvious. “Come to terms with.” What does that mean?_ _

__Well, John knows what it means for _him_. He’s not happy that he has a leg that occasionally barks at ghosts, but at this point, he’s not often actively _unhappy_ about it, either. Serving overseas, getting shot, meeting Sherlock-- they’re all linked, and all a part of him. When the leg aches, he doesn’t just remember the bullet piercing his flesh and the drug-addled fever of the hospital and the crushing sense of failure on his return to Britain. He remembers being so taken by a stranger that he forgot his cane at Angelo’s, and sprinting through London like a madman, and the feeling of it the first time they had pressed their lips together. He remembers the worship in Sherlock’s eyes when he kisses and licks over the shattered-glass scar on John’s shoulder. _ _

__He licks his lips, takes a breath. “I think it probably means… you know, she felt violated. Like her body wasn’t her own. So she needed to feel like she owned it again, and that took some time.”_ _

__Sherlock scoffs. “Well, of course. Her body isn’t her own. It will never be fully hers again. Strangers took it and changed it. Obviously.”_ _

__John feels like he’s just been hit in the face by a brick wall. The vehemence in Sherlock’s tone is astounding, and his fists clench involuntarily. Sherlock is maligning an innocent crime victim, that’s horrific, that’s wrong, that’s--_ _

__nothing to do with that victim at all. Obviously. John isn’t stupid. He can deduce perfectly well that Sherlock is talking about himself._ _

__He consciously unclenches his fists, forces himself to relax and think. Sherlock doesn’t talk about the scars on his back. John knows the vague outline of how he got them, of course, but they’ve never discussed anything even close to _emotional_ having to do with the silvery whip-marks. Sherlock had spent less time shirtless around the flat, after the Fall, and of course John had noticed, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he was going to mention. When they’re naked together, they ‘re nearly always face-to-face; Sherlock prefers to be penetrated with John above him, and when they cuddle Sherlock is either the big spoon, or he burrows under the covers before presenting himself to be held. John never thought much of it in the moment, but now the pattern weaves itself together, presenting a crystal-clear conclusion in front of him, inescapable._ _

__“Oh,” John says softly, and Sherlock smiles a little, lopsidedly, recognizing the process of deduction and drawing of conclusions that has led John to understanding._ _

__Having figured out what was bothering Sherlock, though, doesn’t actually help him much in deciding what to say or do. There’s no magic formula for coming to terms with disfiguring injuries-- if there were, John would definitely know about it._ _

__He sighs. He can try to understand fully, at least. Sherlock had said that _her body will never be fully hers again; strangers took it and changed it._ Something about that is important. _ _

__He stands and crosses the room to the couch, sitting on the end and lifting Sherlock’s feet into his lap to rub at idly. Sherlock sighs and relaxes a little. “It’s not the aesthetics of it that bothers you,” he tries. “It’s the fact that someone so insignificant was allowed to change you. Is that it?”_ _

__Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Well. The aesthetics maybe would bother me, if I could see them regularly. But I can’t, so I suppose that’s your cross to bear.”_ _

__“Sherlock,” John states emphatically. “Your scars are--” _the sexiest fucking thing in the universe, just like the rest of you_ , he narrowly avoids saying. “Gorgeous,” he amends. “I hate that they’re there. If I could kiss them away, I would. But since I can’t, I’m quite content to just kiss them. If you want me to.”_ _

__Sherlock smiles, and he actually looks a little bit shy when he says, “That… could be nice, yeah. But you’re right, aesthetics aren’t my main objection. It’s that they don’t belong to me, or to you. They’re just there. And everything about me should belong to you.”_ _

__John finds himself utterly unable to say anything to that. Instead, he just places Sherlock’s feet gently back on the cushions, and sweeps down to kiss him._ _

__***_ _

__That night, though, John can’t sleep._ _

__Sherlock isn’t in the bed with him yet, so he pulls out his mobile. The screen comes to light in the darkness, and he squints, wondering what on earth he’s doing._ _

__Before he can lose his nerve, he starts to search._ _

__There have been plenty of occasions in the past that one of them has bought a new sex toy without consulting the other, in the hopes of a surprise. John briefly considers it, but then sees the price of the higher-quality items he’s looking at. No, there’s no way he’s going to spend that kind of money without knowing if Sherlock even wants this. And there’s also no chance of him skimping on this.  
So, several hours past midnight, he sends Sherlock a text. It’s just a link, with a question mark after it. _ _

__The link leads to a sex toy shop specializing in handmade leather. The picture shows a solid wooden handle attached to thirty-- the product description says, specifically, thirty-- long, thin strips of lambskin suede. The flogger is gorgeous and intimidating and the moment John hits send, he is filled with adrenaline. What if Sherlock thinks he’s being ridiculous? What if he’s insulted that John thinks he could fix Sherlock’s trauma by so prosaic a method? God, he hopes that’s not what Sherlock thinks he’s trying to do. Worse, what if he doesn’t understand, and is sitting downstairs, staring at the link filled with confusion and anger?_ _

__John quickly dismisses that last one, at least, as impossible. Sherlock will understand what John is suggesting, and why. John clicks off the mobile’s glowing screen, and sets it on the bedside table. He has to ignore it, now; has to give Sherlock time to think this through, and decide whether re-creating the scene with John will help pave over the other-ness etched onto his skin._ _

__He breathes into the darkness, and startles when the door clicks open and Sherlock enters the darkened bedroom._ _

__John holds his breath. It’s not that he’s so attached to the idea; it’s for Sherlock, and if Sherlock doesn’t want it, John doesn’t want it either. He just wants Sherlock to understand. That he’s trying his best. That he would do anything for him._ _

__He hears Sherlock shucking his clothes by the side of the bed-- unusual, he usually hangs the trousers and puts the pants in the laundry straight away-- and feels his warmth slide in between the covers. “John Watson,” he whispers, and John turns over in the darkness to face him._ _

__Sherlock flips over too, pressing his back to John’s chest, and John dips down to kiss the upper limit of the scarring, between his shoulder blades, before pulling him close and answering, “Yes. Present.”_ _

__“You always say that I’m a genius,” Sherlock whispers. “But you underestimate yourself. You are _brilliant._ ”_ _

__John lets out a breath, allowing it to ghost along Sherlock’s neck as relief and love and gratitude flood him. “I love you,” he whispers back, and then he pulls back a little so that he can run a hand down Sherlock’s back, feeling the ridges of raised tissue, gentle and possessive. “I’m going to make all of this mine.”_ _

__***_ _

__It’s as well that the flogger takes several weeks to arrive. They discuss the scene haltingly, in bits and pieces. Sherlock will be in the middle of an experiment when he’ll say something like, “I was standing. I want to be standing,” and John will have a moment of blank confusion before remembering what they’re talking about. John brings up safewords, but they decide not to have one: “stop” will be the only safeword they’ll need. “I want to re-write this with pleasure,” John says, and Sherlock nods in agreement. “It will hurt, of course, but you’re going to be a participant, not an object acted upon.”_ _

__Sherlock doesn’t want his arms tied. Instead, John nails two rope handles into the wall of the bedroom, and Sherlock tests the height of them in advance: he’ll hold onto the ropes, instead of the other way around._ _

__John refuses to consider drawing blood. He’s pretty sure the soft suede wouldn’t, anyway, but he has to say it. Sherlock purses his lips and looks a little put out, but he nods and says, “But I want you to go hard,” and John nods and kisses the side of his mouth softly._ _

__Finally: the flogger has arrived, and sits unassumingly on the dresser. John practices on a pillow when Sherlock isn’t home, committing his aim and levels of intensity to memory. The rope handles are installed and John has tested them by executing ten military-clean pullups on them, a feat that earned him an approving gaze, and then more, from Sherlock. Finally, John lays in supplies of soft fleece blankets and aloe lotion, and waits._ _

__They had agreed that Sherlock would initiate this. When he feels ready, he’ll let John know._ _

__And finally, he does. Sherlock takes John’s hand, and leads him into the bedroom, and holds his arms out to the sides, waiting._ _

__John takes a deep breath, and he lets Sherlock see him doing it. Sherlock knows that he’s nervous. He knows that Sherlock is nervous, too, even if he’s the one who’s decided that now is the time to do this thing. They’re in this together._ _

__John smiles, and leans in to kiss his cheek, chaste. “I’m going to take your shirt off,” he murmurs, and his fingers start working over the buttons. Sherlock lets him, not helping, just watching. John kisses the pale skin as he exposes it. He’s planning on kissing quite a lot of Sherlock tonight._ _

__“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and slides the shirt off of Sherlock’s shoulders. He folds it on the bed; nothing messy or rushed, not tonight. Sherlock smiles a little at the care John is taking, and leans forward into John’s hands when he runs them down his shoulders, down to his hips, and up his sides._ _

__“Every inch of you,” he continues. “Sometimes I can’t believe my luck. That I get to have you. And after tonight, there won’t be a single sinch of you that isn’t mine.”_ _

__Sherlock moans. John can feel that he isn’t hard, not yet; he’s too nervous to be properly aroused. John suspects it’s not the pain he’s afraid of. He’s seen Sherlock stay rock-hard through more intense painplay than this. But this is different, and John knows that Sherlock’s lack of erection isn’t a bad thing, at this point. He’s simply concentrating._ _

__John continues kissing and licking up and down Sherlock’s chest until he can feel the biceps that he rests his hands on relax somewhat. He doesn’t ask Sherlock if he’s ready, or egg him on; instead, he simply follows when Sherlock pulls away abruptly. He takes John’s face between his hands and kisses him deeply, for just a moment, then says, “I’m ready.”_ _

__He turns around, and John looks at his back in the full light, with no distractions, for the first time._ _

__He winces. Not because it’s ugly now, but because he can imagine what it once looked like: a bloody mass, barely skin at all, roiling with red and brown like the surface of a gory sea. His heart squeezes painfully, and he has to lean forward to press more kisses to Sherlock’s back. There are some places that are simply a mass of scar tissue, and others where he can trace distinct whip-lines._ _

__Sherlock walks forward, and takes hold of the rope handles._ _

__“You’re amazing,” John marvels. He can’t stop spouting praise, apparently, and he doesn’t want to: every time he speaks, Sherlock relaxes a little more. He keeps it up as he walks to the dresser and picks up the flogger, calling Sherlock brilliant, gorgeous, the bravest man he’s ever met, incredible. When he arrives back by the wall where Sherlock is standing, he announces his arrival with another gentle caress._ _

__“Okay,” he says. “You’re in charge of this, Sherlock. You’re going to tell me what to do. Softer, harder, faster, slower. If you tell me to keep going, I will until you say to stop or slow down. It’s all up to you, love. Every stroke makes you mine, but you’re only mine because you’re giving yourself to me.”_ _

__He can hear the soft whistle of Sherlock’s breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “You can start,” Sherlock says finally, softly but firmly. “Not too hard, but consistent.”_ _

__John steps back, giving himself room to move his wrist with his arm mostly extended. He’s practiced this: a figure-eight pattern, the suede tails brushing, not snapping, against the target. It feels different on skin than it had on the pillow; more satisfying, more _real_. As soon as he feels the touch of the leather, Sherlock sighs and leans down into the give of the handles. John is glad to see that; the hardest part, as with anything, was getting started. _ _

__He settles into the rhythm of it, watching Sherlock’s back pinken a little. Most of the scar tissue appears unaffected, and John wonders how much Sherlock can even feel of it. That isn’t important, though; the pain isn’t the point._ _

__Sherlock answers his unspoken question. “It’s not very sensitive,” he says. “You can go harder now. But slower.”_ _

__“Okay,” John confirms, and shuffles over a little so that he’s angled to be able to give single strokes up and down Sherlock’s back. The first stroke lands significantly harder than any of the warm-up strokes had been and Sherlock gasps a little; but he doesn’t object, just re-graps the handles and waits. John’s lips part at the sight: Sherlock is so damn trusting it makes him want to prostrate himself at the man’s feet. He swings the flogger again, and again, and again. “You’re doing so well,” he says, and Sherlock moans, and now there’s just a tiny bit of an edge in the sound he’s making, and John can see from his position at the side of Sherlock’s body the first hints of a bulge at the front of his trousers. He lets the flogger drop to his side for a moment, and steps forward to rub his hand up Sherlock’s leg and over his groin. “Feel good so far?”_ _

__Sherlock nods, biting his full lip. “It’s good,” he whispers. “Having you-- look at that place, and touch it. I was afraid to show you, I think. I don’t know why.”_ _

__John nods, and traces the leather over Sherlock’s back gently. “It’s gorgeous,” he murmurs. “You make me crazy for you, Sherlock. I love touching you in absolutely every way. May I do some more?”_ _

__“Please,” Sherlock gasps, and John pulls away again. He positions himself on the other side of Sherlock’s body, so the stinging tips of the pieces of suede will reach the opposite side of Sherlock’s back. He isn’t afraid, now, and he swings it confidently, not stopping at the small sounds Sherlock lets out._ _

__After a while, the sounds shift from gasps and moans into something softer. Wetter. John hesitates. “Sherlock?”_ _

__When Sherlock speaks, it’s obvious that it’s through tears. “Keep going,” he says, and as John is repositioning himself to start back up again, “Just a little more.”_ _

__John smiles. He is enjoying this; the slap of the leather against Sherlock’s skin, the way he feels both powerful and benevolent, getting to feast his eyes on a part of Sherlock’s body that had been practically hidden until now._ _

__“Thank you,” says Sherlock, and John drops the flogger and surges forward._ _

__Sherlock drops the handles and turns around, practically collapsing into John’s arms. His face is streaked with tears, but he’s smiling. “Mine,” growls John. “All mine,” and he can feel Sherlock’s nod._ _

__He leads Sherlock to the bed. The detective’s legs are wobbly, and he collapses down onto his back as soon as they reach it. “Good?” John says. “Not too much on your back, to be pressed against the sheets?” Sherlock shakes his head._ _

__John leans down to kiss the tears off of his face. “Good,” he says. “You were so good. I’m so proud of you, Sherlock, I love you so much, giving your back to me like that. I’m honoured.”_ _

__Sherlock just nods, and he’s crying again, but not distressed tears; he’s smiling, reaching up to pull John down on top of him. “Thank you,” he says, and then in a rare instance of repeating himself, “Thank you,” again._ _

__John caresses Sherlock’s face, shoulders, chest, and glances down to his trousers. “Do you want me to make you feel good, love?” he asks, when Sherlock’s tears subside._ _

__Sherlock smiles. “You already have,” he says. “But yes. Later.I know you’ll always take care of me. Just this, for now.”_ _

__John nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck. He’s lying fully on top of him, resting his weight on his elbows so as to not bear him down into the mattress too hard. Their breathing slows, and John can feel the beat of Sherlock’s heart through his chest._ _

__“I belong to you,” Sherlock says, like the realization is something to marvel at. Like John hasn’t belonged to him heart and soul for years. He rolls over, pushing John down and climbing on top of him, so his gorgeous, radiant, tear-streaked face is staring down at him._ _

__John reaches up, tracing his hand over Sherlock’s scars. John’s scars. “Every piece.”_ _


End file.
